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ILLINOIS  HISTORICAL  SURVEY 


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ILLINI  POETRY 


1  ' 

ILLINI 
POETRY 

1918-19-2.3 

Edited  by 

'Bruce  Weirick 

(@) 

chica.go 
covici-m?gee  co. 

191-3 

1 


) 


Copyright  1923 

COVICI-McGEE  CO. 
CHICAGO 


PRESS  OF 
PRINTING 
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CHICAGO 


Preface 

With  Masters,  Lindsay,  Sandburg,  and 
Sarett,  Illinois  has  in  the  last  ten  years  had  the 
good  fortune  to  give  to  American  letters  perhaps 
half  the  good  poetry  which  the  decade  has  pro- 
duced. By  means  of  these  men,  and  with  Poetry 
Magazine  in  Chicago,  the  middle  west  has  for  the 
first  time  found  a  voice  and  has  begun  to  sing. 
Irony,  optimism,  barbaric  gusto,  and  beauty  are 
here,  chanted  in  verse  of  energy  and  joy.  With 
what  seems,  to  a  region  formerly  little  sung,  almost 
a  renaissance,  these  poets  have  appeared  quite  sud- 
denly in  the  poetical  firmament.  Under  such  an 
impulse,  it  is  not  therefore  to  be  wondered  at  that 
the  universities  should  also  catch  at  a  strain  or 
two.  In  the  east  and  west  there  have  been  eddies. 
With  Noyes  and  his  group  at  Princeton,  with  the 
Harvard  and  Yale  series  of  student  verse,  with 
Witter  Bynner  at  California,  to  mention  no  more, 
students  have  of  late  written  much  shall  we  say, 
reputable  poetry,  with  now  and  then  something  a 
bit  more  than  reputable. 

As  gardens  for  poets  our  universities  will  al- 
ways be  important.  It  is  therefore  a  vital  matter 
in  American  letters  to  know  from  time  to  time  how 
the  arts  flourish  at  these  centers  of  learning.  How 
especially  in  the  middle  west,  the  source  of  so  much 
energy,  industrial,  social,  and  human.  As  yet  there 
have  been  few  soundings  in  these  colleges.  Wis- 
consin, Michigan,  Ohio,  Chicago,  Illinois,  have  been 
relatively  dumb,  at  least  poetically;  farmers, 
journalists,  lawyers,  and  business  men  being  about 
the  height  of  their  great  argument.  It  is  with  dif- 
fidence, yet  with  a  good  deal  of  pleasure  too,  that 
Illinois  breaks  the  silence  with  this  anthology  of 


some  of  her  recent  verse.  Yet  after  some  thought  it 
has  seemed  good  that  the  silence  should  be  broken. 
The  poems  in  the  present  volume  were  written 
during  the  last  five  years  by  the  members  of  the 
Poetry  Society  of  the  University  of  Illinois.  The 
society  was  organized  in  1918  by  Miss  Allene 
Gregory,  daughter  of  the  first  president  of  the 
University,  and  then  an  instructor  in  English  there. 
The  group  has  usually  consisted  of  some  twelve  or 
fifteen.  At  its  fortnightly  meetings  the  new  poetry 
is  read  and  discussed,  and  once  a  year  there  is  an 
open  meeting,  at  which  the  best  work  of  the  society 
is  offered  to  the  public.  The  reception  of  our 
poetry  at  those  readings  has  encouraged  the  pro- 
duction of  this  volume. 

The  most  distinguished  member  of  the  Society, 
Lew  Sarett,  does  not  appear  here,  as  his  two  vol- 
umes of  Indian  chants,  "Many  Many  Moons'9 
(1920),  and  "The  Box  of  God"  (1922)  are  suffi- 
ciently known.  The  poems  of  Lois  Seyster  Mont- 
ROSS,  joint-author  of  "Town  and  Gown"  we  here 
present  for  the  first  time  in  any  volume,  though  a 
book  of  hers  "The  Crimson  Cloak"  has  been  an- 
nounced as  in  prospect.  It  is  with  some  eagerness 
that  we  await  the  reception  of  such  poems  of  hers 
as  "Taj  Mischa"  and  "The  Crimson  Cloak"  One 
other  writer,  Lem  Phillips,  a  southern  Indiana 
boy,  who  saw  two  years  of  the  war,  and  had  done 
two  or  three  summers  of  sailing  in  the  Black  Sea 
and  Indian  Ocean,  died  last  year.  His  free  buoy- 
ant character,  and  the  promise  of  his  all  too  few 
poems  and  stories  make  his  loss  especially  poig- 
nant. The  only  faculty  members  whose  work  is  here 
included,  are  Gregory,  Landis,  Syford,  and 
Weirick. 

If  this  volume  of  Mini  poetry  reveals  a  back- 
ground and  society  not  so  exclusively  agricultural 
and  industrial  as  some  of  our  sharper  critics  like 
to  ascribe  to  us,  we  can  only  apologize  for  not 
running  as  true  to  form  as  they  might  wish.  The 
stimulating  presence  of  Mr.  Stuart  P.  Sherman 


in  the  department  of  English  may  account  for  some 
of  our  perverseness.  The  dynamic  energy  generated 
by  an  institution  that  wishes  to  despise  no  kind  of 
achievement  that  may  benefit  man  or  the  state,  may 
account  for  the  rest.  If  this  work  may  seem  to 
others  a  worthy  performance,  its  authors  will  re- 
joice. And  if  it  may  have  the  luck  to  arouse  from 
silence  our  songless  university  contemporaries  in 
the  middle  west,  it  will  perhaps  still  more  have 
served  its  purpose  as  a  book  well  born. 

BRUCE  WEIRICK. 


Contents 


Alene  Gregory 1 

Personality 1 

To  Certain  Alumni 1 

To  an  Ag  Freshman 2 

Respectability 2 

All  Hallows 3 

Don  C.  Allen 4 

•     Moonstones;  A  Song  for  Irish  Fairies   .  4 

Rann  for  Mary  Magdalene 5 

Delia  Bell 6 

City  Curtains 6 

Prayer 7 

T.  P.  Bourland 7 

Incident's  Close 7 

To  a  Lady  Far  Away 8 

The  Early  Summer  of  Philosophy   .    .  8 

Hollow  Log  and  Hollow  Reed   ....  9 

A  Postscript  for  Unmailable  Letters   .    .  10 

Hypnosis 10 

Nous    Sommes    Ici  —  Parceque  —  Nous 

Sommes  Ici 11 

Outrage 12 

Cosmology  in  a  Cafe 12 

The  Rocket 14 

Quincy  Guy  Burris 15 

To  a  Woman's  Hands 15 

A  Villanelle  of  Violets 15 

Garreta  Helen  Busey 16 

The  New   Moon 16 

White  Jasmine 17 

We  Would  Forget 18 

On  Reading  Poems  Old  and  New   ...  18 


The  Lincoln  Ox-Yoke 19 

Rain  at  Evening 19 

Helen  B.  Carr 20 

Domine 20 

A  Cat  Scratch 21 

Esther  Colvin 22 

Youth  Memories 22 

Lament  for  One  Just  Dead 22 

Our  Street 23 

Francis  C.  Coughlin 24 

Analogy 24 

Arthur  R.  Curry 25 

The  Jeweler 25 

The  Reference  Librarian 25 

David  V.  Felts 26 

"Chinese  Lanterns  Idly  Swaying"   ...   26 
"Spring    Smiles    On    From    Dawn    Till 

Gloaming" 27 

To  Dorothy 27 

Marcus  Selden  Goldman 28 

Novum  Carmen  Veterum 28 

Paul  Nissley  Landis 29 

"What  Though  of  Late  We've  Scarcely 

Met" 29 

"My  Heart  Is  Like  a  Little  Road"    .    .  29 

Ghosts 29 

"When  a  Child  I  Found  a  Pretty  Thing"  30 
"Day  After  Day,  Year  After  Year,  He 

Came" 30 

Thrift 31 

H L ,  M.  D 32 

Jim  Moore 32 

My  Heart  Grows  Faint 33 

Amor  Grammatici 33 

Isador  Lipton 34 

Spring  Dawn 34 

0  What  a  Lover  Is  the  Sea! 34 

Listen,  Lem 35 

Solitaire 37 

Picknicking  on  Golgotha 38 

The  Bitter  Beauty 41 


Mirza  French  MacKay 44 

Cabin  Sleep-Song 44 

Anemone 45 

J.  R.  McNeill 46 

The  Nature-Lovers 46 

Jeannette 46 

The  Dancer 47 

Harold  McKinley  Mann 49 

The  Threnody  of  the  Mourning  Dove  .  49 
Prayer 50 

Lois  Seyster  Montross 53 

Codes 53 

Dead  Leaves 54 

To  Charmian,  Unborn 54 

Lapidary 54 

The  Stranger 55 

"Have  You  Known  What  Snow  Is?"  .  55 

You  Say  Death  Is  Not  Sad? 56 

Galleon  Dawn 56 

"I  Am  A  Hedonist,  God  Wot!"  ....  57 

Missie 60 

Empty  Spools 62 

Meditations  of  a  Dump-Heap 63 

Runners 67 

Taj-Mischa 70 

"I  Wear  a  Crimson  Cloak  Tonight"  .    .  73 

Wm.  B.  Mowery 74 

Hokku 74 

Chas.  Edmund  Noyes 77 

Tonight 77 

Song 77 

Demiurge 77 

Lem  Phillips 78 

Before  Sailing 78 

Sugar      79 

A  Scholar 80 

Earth  Hunger 81 

Winter  Sunset    . 82 

Spring  Song 82 

Still  They  Think  of  War 82 

To  Pain 83 


Raymond  A.  Seng 84 

Summer  Rain 84 

Song 85 

Bliss  Seymour 85 

Spring  on  the  Prairie 85 

Ghost  Night 86 

The  Philanderer 86 

Wonder-Walking 87 

The  Stadium 88 

Constance  Miriam  Syford 88 

Tints  and  Undertones 88 

Silhouette 89 

Picture 90 

Boutonnieres       91 

Laurence  F.  Triggs 92 

Burn  Candles,  Love 92 

Triad 92 

The  One  Remains 93 

Roberta  Wagner 93 

Saffron .93 

Bruce  Weirick 94 

Lines   Written   in   a   Crypt   of   the  Art 

Institute,  Chicago 94 

Lines   Written   in   Early   Spring  While 

Under  the  Influence  of  Philosophy  .   94 
The  Dancer 96 


ILLINI  FOETRY 


Allene  Gregory" 

Personality 

I  am  a  stained  glass  window, 

Little  of  light  comes  through, 

Flecked  with  a  thousand  colors, 

Crimson,  and  mauve,  and  blue. 

Yet  when  you  praised  my  colors, 

Only  the  dear  stars  knew 

How  I  longed  to  shatter  my  painted  glass 

And  show  far  worlds  to  you. 

To  Certain  Alumni 

I  have  kept  faith  with  you,  0  wistful  faces, 

0  clear  young  eyes  that  once  I  filled  with  dream, 
Giving  you  tidings  of  high  lonely  places, 

Bringing  you  legends  of  white  peaks  agleam. 

I  did  not  prate  of  heights  and  stay  unquesting; 

My  feet  are  bleeding  with  the  bitter  scars 
Of  lonely  ways  where  I  have  passed,  unresting, 

Seeking  the  paths  that  lead  beyond  the  stars. 

My  youth  was  yours.     I  have  lived,  and  done  with 
speaking. 

1  had  not  guessed  the  cost  of  being  free, 

The  anguish  of  the  quest.     Yet  with  your  seeking 
I  have  kept  faith.    Have  you  kept  faith  with  me? 

*[In  private  life  Mrs.  Edmund  Allen.] 

[  1  ] 


To  an  Ag  Freshman 

Gaunt,  awkward,  prairie  born, 

Farm  bred,  your  slow  speech  lacking  every  grace, 
The  wistful  boyhood  of  your  lonely  face 

Stirs  us.  We  vaguely  wish  you  less  forlorn. 
We  teach  you,  and  our  patience  is  half  scorn. 
Yet  your  clear  eyes 

Are  deep  with  peace  we  lack,  we  over- wise; 
What  secret  have  you  learned  among  the  corn? 

Respectability 

I  hug  my  hearth  fire,  cozy-warm, 

Approved  by  wise  and  loving  friends; 

She  passes  in  the  marching  storm 
Down  the  long  road  that  never  ends, 

Rebel  and  outcast,  beggared,  free, 
The  woman  that  I  dare  not  be. 

I  have  a  task  that  fills  my  days, 

I  do  it  with  a  right  good  will 
And  earn  thereby  both  bread  and  praise; 

Why  does  her  mocking  laughter  still 
Burn  to  the  very  soul  of  me, 

The  woman  that  I  dare  not  be? 

A  sanctuary  I  would  seek 

On  Sundays  in  the  House  of  Prayer; 

But  when  I  kneel  among  the  meek, 
Between  me  and  the  altar  there, 

God's  scorn  in  her  clear  eyes,  I  see 
The  woman  that  I  dare  not  be. 


[  2  ] 


All  Hallows 

The  saints  of  God,  they  frighten  me.     Their  faith 
is  always  whole. 
They  stand  like  tall  white  candles  by  the  altars 
of  the  soul. 
I  have  so  many  wayward  moods  that  take  me  un- 
awares, 
I  had  rather  ask  God's  poets  to  help  me  at  my 
prayers. 

Saint  Orispin  was  a  workingman  before  he  made 
his  vow, 
Theresa  was  a  woman  once  that  wears  a  halo 
now, 
And  Hugh  of  Lincoln  played  the  games  that  little 
children  know; 
But  they  were  all   so  innocent,  those  lives   of 
long  ago. 

The  poets  were  a  feckless   lot,   and  seldom  over 
wise, 
And  many  wrong  and  foolish  things  had  value 
in  their  eyes; 
They  trailed  their  visions  in  the  dust,  were  often 
somewhat  blind — 
One  dare  confess  to  them  that  God  is  very  hard 
to  find. 

So,  Dante,  teach  me  love  and  hate,  and  Chaucer, 
show  me  mirth, 
And   Langland,    give   me   plowman's    faith   that 
labors  close  to  earth, 
And   Shelley,   sacred   heart   aflame  with   sense   of 
human  wrong, 
Make  me  a  valiant  rebel  for  the  weak  against 
the  strong. 

[  3  ] 


Don  C.  Allen 

Moonstones:  A  Song  for 
Irish  Fairies 

Watch  the  Moon  when  she  is  blue, 

Just  before  the  break  of  day 

In  her  cloudy  rendezvous, 

While  you  watch  her  slowly  say. . . . 

"Crystal  globe  of  Heaven's  light 
Drop   a  tear   or  drop   a  sigh 
In  the  basin  of  the  night." 
Croon  the  Moon  a  lullaby, 
She  will  answer  bye  and  bye 
With  a  tear-drop  or  a  sigh. 

Watch  the  Moon  when  she  is  blue, 
Watch  the  land  and  watch  the  sea; 
If  they  are  the  same  then  you 
Sing  beneath  the  bramble-tree. . .  . 

"Queen  of  Heaven,  bright  and  fair, 
With  your  coronet  of  green, 
Listen,  listen  to  my  prayer." 
(Pan  has  crossed  the  sky  unseen.) 
She  will  know  whate'er  you  mean, 
Drop  her  coronet  of  green. 

Watch  the  Moon  when  she  is  blue 
In  the  tarlatan  of  dawn 
Sprinkled  with  her  retinue; 
Sing  them  lightly  leprechaun .... 


[  4  ] 


"Pearl  of  Heaven,  pure  and  cool 
'Gainst  a  cloth  of  indigo; 
Let  your  tear-drops  make  a  pool. . 
Little  wells  of  soft  Moon-glow." 
She  will  answer  you,  I  know. 
Leave  a  pool  of  soft  Moon-glow. 

L'Envoi. 

Come,  waken,  sprite  of  Fairy  Lands, 

The  Sun  is  near  the  noon. 

Then  let  us  flee  across  the  sands 

Where  lazy  waters  croon; 

There  we  will  fill  our  trembling  hands 

With  tear-drops  of  that  Moon. 


Rann  for  Mary  Magdalene 

"A  ghloir  ionmhuin  dob'  iseal  aoibhinn 
An  fior  go  gcualas  tren  shuanaibu  thu. 
No  an  fior  an  t-eolas  ata  clom'bheo-ghoin. 
Mo  bhron,  9a  tuamba  nil  fuaim  na  guth." 

From  'A  Chinn  Aluinn!- 

Oh  woman  with  the  storm  cloud's  hair; 
Seller  of  Love  for  sordid  fee, 
Go  hide  thyself  from  common  stare, 
For  Christ  is  calling,  calling  thee. 

Oh  woman  with  the  primrose  thighs ; 
A  thousand  men  have  lain  with  thee 
But  aye  the  sadness  of  your  eyes  .... 
The  lover  Christ  can  comfort  thee. 
Oh  woman  with  the  wild  thing's  heart, 
Hiding  in  wood,  in  nook,  in  tree 


C  5  ] 


From  hounds  of  Lust,  forspent  thou  art 
The  hunter  Christ  will  pity  thee. 

Oh  woman  bankrupt  of  thyself; 
Waster  of  Love,  vain  debauchee; 
Slave  to  men's  eyes  for  little  pelf  .... 
The  Shuiler  Christ  will  buy  thee  free. 

Oh  woman  of  the  cold,  cold  kiss, 
Whom  no  true  lover  ever  knew; 
Weep,  woman,  is  it  not  for  this 
That  Christ  will  die  for  you,  for  you? 

Delia  Bell 

City  Curtains 

I  like  the  little  curtains  at  the  windows. 
When  morning  breezes  swing  them  to  and  fro, 
They  make  a  cool  white  brotherhood  of  houses, 
Of  closely  packed,  and  drooping  soulless  houses, 
That  grow  so  tired  of  standing  in  a  row. 

The  dimpled  baby  died  across  the  high  way 

The  morning  that  the  other  baby  came; 

The  little  curtains  waved  their  arms  in   greeting 

Across  the  street  in  lovely  ruffled  greeting, 

All  clean  and  white  and  hemstitched,  just  the  same. 

I  like  the  little  curtain  screens  at  evening 
With  all  the  rosy  homelight  streaming  out; 
It  may  be  that  behind  them  hearts  are  aching, 
It  is  such  balm  to  know  when  hearts  are  aching 
That  little  curtain  screens  are  close  about. 

[  6  ] 


Prayer 

I  saw  his  head  was  bald,  when  he  knelt, 

And  that  he  stooped  so  slowly.    He  was  old. 

I  smiled. 

An  ignorant,  aged,  trusting  child,  I  felt. 

I  wondered  if  he  found  the  dim  church  cold. 

What  is  it  stained  glass  windows  do 

To  make  a  gray  old  man  look  warm  and  bright? 

That  they  are  dark  and  colorful  is  true, 

And  yet, 

Why  should  I  sometimes  dream  of  them  at  night? 

T.  P.  Bourland 

Incident's  Close 

Now  we  must  go  our  ways. 

Long  days 

And  loneliness  our  portion  for  a  while. 

Our  hands  touch, 

And  we  smile. 

Much  beauty  has  been  ours; 

Tall  towers, 

White  castles,  spires,  high  casements  in  the  sky — 

We  built  these, 

You  and  I, 

Our  hands  touch,  and  we  smile; 

What  guile 

We  need,  whose  eyes  must  nothing  tell. 

Our  lips  say 

"Fare  thee  well!" 

[  7  ] 


To  a  Lady  Far  Away 

Tonight,  if  you  were  here,  I'd  block 

The  silly  hands  upon  the  clock; 

And  I  would  turn  to  you  and  say 

"My  child,  it  never  will  be  day 

Unless  we  start  the  clock  again," 

Then  I  would  make  a  daisy  chain, 

And  snare  three  little  stars  to  light 

Your  face,  if  you  were  here  tonight. 

And  if  by  chance  black  butterflies 

Presumed  to  dwell  upon  your  eyes, 

I  know  an  ancient  spell  we'd  say 

To  frighten  butterflies  away. 

I'd  gather  shadows  from  the  wall 

And  bid  them  dance  for  us,  and  call 

Our  neighbor  Pan,  that  he  might  blow 

Mad  tunes  upon  his  reed  ...  I  know 

We  two  would  find  a  magic  way 

To  lay  the  ghost  of  yesterday, 

And  deck  the  garments  of  the  year 

With  flowers  tonight  ...  if  you  were  here. 

The  Early  Slimmer  of  Philosophy 

I  weary  you  with  praises.     I  have  said 
That  grace  envelopes  you;  that  on  your  head 
Some  god  had  set  the  seal  of  loveliness; 
That  one  touch  of  your  hand,  one  slight  caress, 
Flamed  like  a  burning  star.     That  on  your  mouth 
Slept  all  the  scented  blossoms  of  the  South, 
I  said  to  you.    And  little  songs  I  made 
To  your  two  little  feet,  for  that  they  played 
Most  wantonly  and  sweetly  in  my  heart; 
And  of  your  eyes,  I  said  there  was  no  art 

[  8  j 


Could  shadow  forth  their  beauty:  that  your  eyes 

Were  Lethe,  Fairyland,  and  Paradise. 

So  would  I  sing  you  ever.    "But  the  days 

"Are  swift,"  some  say.    "And  all  this  windy  praise 

"Is  but  a  sorry  effigy  of  you." 

(Daughter  of  Eve,  your  eyes  are  very  blue.) 

But  say  the  wise,  "This  is  frivolity; 

"What  boots  this  talk  of  lip  and  hair  and  eye  ? 

"They  are  illusion.    Fix,  0  youth,  thy  mind 

"On  matters  of  the  pure,  grave,  vital  kind. 

"Whence  come  ye?     Ponder  that.    And  ask  thyself 

"Why  seek  ye  earthly  love  and  earthly  pelf? 

"To  what  end  livest  thou?     Where  sail  thy  ships? 
"0,  babble  not  of  hair  and  eyes  and  lips! 
"Life  is  too  real  .  .  ."    or  was  it  "real"  they  said? 
My  child,  the  wise  are  wise.    Incline  your  head 
While  I  will  whisper  high  grave  things  to  you: 
Daughter  of  Eve,  your  eyes  are  very  blue. 

Hollow  Log  and  Hollow  Reed 

With  me  it  has  been  ever  so. 
Through  all  the  winter  time  I  go 
Austere,  and  mindful  of  my  book, 
Deaf  to  sweet  music;  and  I  brook 
No  byplay  of  white  arms.    Pierrette 
Beckons  in  vain,  the  jade.    While  yet 
The  elms  of  green  are  innocent, 
I  keep  a  lonely  watch,  content. 

But  oh,  there  comes  an  April  night 
When  all  the  town  is  strangely  white, 
And  little  questing  winds  blow  by; 

[  9  ] 


And  when  that  night  is  on  me  I 
Do  shortly  fling  my  book  away, 
And  seek  Pierrette,  the  jade,  and  say 
"My  child,  the  time  has  come  to  play." 

I  cannot  say  the  springtime  nay. 
Perforce,  when  lifts  the  winter  fog 
I  venture  from  my  hollow  log 
And  cut  a  hollow  reed  to  blow. 

With  me  it  has  been  ever  so. 

A  Postscript  for  Untnailable 
Letters 

Though  I  send  these  lines  to  you, 
And  your  name  is  writ  above, 
Some  of  them  may  not  be  true. 
All  my  fancy's  yours,  but  love  .  .  . 

Love  is  quite  a  grave  affair. 
(As  I  wrote  I  heard  a  slow, 
vagrant,   sentimental   air.) 
Music  often  moves  me  so. 


Hypnosis 

Oh  Ph.  D 
Your  Phibate  key 
Entrances  me. 

Its  face  displays 
The  solar  rays 

[  10  ] 


Of  golden  days; 
Hypnosis  shakes 
My  mind;  it  makes 
Me  feel  like  snakes. 

You  lecture  there; 
Thin  is  you  hair! 
Earnest  your  air. 

But  dancingly 
Your  Phibate  key 
Blinks — mockingly. 

It's  getting  me. 

T.  P.  B. 

Nous  Sommes  let — Parceque — 
Nous  Sommes  let 

We  sit,  0  learned  doctor,  at  thy  feet, 

And  daily,  with  our  costly  fountain  pens 

Take  notes  concerning  homo  sapiens 

And  calculus  and  plant  disease  and  Crete, 

And  when  you  say  black's  white,  we  write  it  down; 

And  when  you  prove  it  true  we  acquiesce, 

Knowing  full  well  no  errors  effervesce 

Behind  the  stately  rampart  of  your  frown. 

And,  though  our  minds  are  shrouded  with  a  fog, 
And  though  our  poor  perceptions  seem  quite  rough, 
And  though  at  times  you  leave  us  obfuscated, 
We  daily  stay  to  hear  your  monolog, 
Because  we  know,  if  we  stay  long  enough, 
We  will,  in  God's  good  time,  be  educated. 

[  11  ] 


Outrage 

I  wear  suspenders,  and  when  nights  wax  cold 
A  flannel  night-shirt  comforts  me.     At  times 
I  con  John  Dryden,  and  the  rocking  rhymes 
Of  Alec  Pope  have  solaced  me  of  old. 
I'm  absent  minded.     My  ungartered  hose 
Most  comfortably  sag.    My  tie's  a  sight. 
I  never  kiss  my  female  friends  good  night. 
My  spectacles  slip  downward  on  my  nose. 

Grant  that  I  smoke  seegars,  and  sometimes  dance, 
And  grant  that  once  a  barmaid  on  me  smiled: 
Yet  Time  has  cooked  me  in  his  casserole 
More  than  enough.    So  tell  me,  what  mad  chance 
Prompted  Pierrette  to  say,  "You  silly  child, 
You  never  will  grow  up!"  .  .  .  God  bless  my  soul! 


Cosmology  in  a  Cafe 

Scene:     A  place  of  amusement. 

Persons:     A  young  man,  an  auditor,  and  revelers. 

Time;     The  moribund  year. 

I  know  her  escort  slightly.    He's  a  man 
Of  nice  adjustments,  and  experience,  and  tact, 
And  taste  in  wenches.    This  one — does  she  not? 
Dances  with  grace  and  manifest  delight. 
They're  pleased,  each  with  the  other.    Pretty  babes! 
His  hand,  like  a  white  leech  upon  her  back, 
Her  silken  back  .  .  .  and  note  his  gray,  cold  eyes. 
Now,  that's  a  dancing  ditty.     What's  it  called? 
"Hot  Lips"  you  say?     Ha!     Right  well  named.    A 
tune 

[  12  ] 


That  roves  precisely  yet  insistently  along: 
Empedocles,  gone  mathematic  mad, 
And  by  some  paradox  inflamed  with  love, 
Might  whistle  such  from  Aetna. 
Music  and  mathematics,  intermeshed. 
Why  not?    I've  heard  that  all  the  world 
And  all  things  incident  to  all  our  lives 
Are  numbered  fictions.     Why  not  music,  then? 
Indeed,  this  hampered  and  desirous  flesh, 
Moved  in  the  dance  by  mandate  of  the  powers 
Of  X  and  Y.    The  sallow  waiter  there, 
Cursing  the  bus-boy  in  sheer  weariness, 
The  lady  who  spilled  wine  upon  my  coat, 
And  that  absurd  Silenus  with  the  drum, 
Are,  like  as  not,  but  interwoven  digits: 
Mere  permutations  in  arithmetic. 
Likewise  all  things.    Go  down  the  shadowed  street: 
Each  dog  and  cat  and  man  and  shuttered  house, 
Each  footfall  in  the  night,  all  things,  in  fine, 
A  man  might  stumble  on  between  this  room 
And  the  last  quiet  star,  do  come  to  naught 
Unless  they  curve  and  coalesce  to  form 
This  passionate  equation  we  call  life. 
On  any  other  terms  these  things  lack  point, 
Or  so  it  seems  to  me.    The  science  men 
Will  bear  me  out.    They  calculate  that  space, 
Instead  of  going  on,  and  on,  and  on, 
Curves  in  upon  itself:     is  limited. 
A  pretty  thought  to  play  with,  is  it  not? 
The  Universe  a  sphere,  surrounded  by 
Unspatial  space,  or  something  of  the  sort: 
Within  whose  glassy,  flawless  boundary  wall 
We  dance  and  contract  debts,  write  books,  make 
love, 

[  13  ] 


And  move  about,  according  to  the  place 

And  power  and  number  of  our  formulae. 

Somewhere  behind  Arcturus  squats  the  King, 
Ornately  decked  in  nothingness;   midstream 
In  uncreated  night;  staring  eternally 
Upon  his  round,  minute  domain,  with  tempered 
pride. 

Waiter,  the  check — and  give  this  note 

If  opportunity  presents  itself 

To  that  slim  lady  with  the  jade-green  fan. 

At  least,  I'll  know  her  number  in  this  scheme. 


The  Rocket 

One  summer  night  the  world  was  empty  and  quiet. 
The  trees  and  the  stars,  all  in  their  places, 
Shrouded  their  secret  forms  in  purple  mists; 
0,  the  world  was  a  giant  asleep  in  a  perfumed 

chamber, 
Dreaming  and  drugged  and  dead  that  night. 
Shadowed,  adrift  in  the  infinite  somnolence, 
Where  the  ghost  of  a  house,  and  the  ghost 
Of  a  lilac-scent  brooded,  lost  and  desolate, 
Somewhere  .... 

My  white  face  looked  from  a  window. 
Out  in  the  fringe  of  the  town 
I  saw  a  rocket  splendidly  defy  the  night — 
Golden,  and  bright,  and  proud, 
Invading  infinity  with  a  fantastic  happiness 
It  spread  its  jeweled  robes, 
Lifted  its  gallant  head, 
And  was  gone. 
You  were  like  that. 

[  14  ] 


Quincy  Guy  Burris 

To  a  Woman  s  Hands 

I  would  obey  thy  least  commands, 

Serve  thy  behests  implicitly, 
Frail,  pallid,  lovely,  fluttering  hands. 

Blithely  I  suffer  reprimands 

From  thee,  pale,  drooping  fleurs-de-lis. 
I  would  obey  thy  least  commands. 

Lightly  as  Spanish  sarabands, 

Come,  hover  o'er  me  momently, 
Frail,  pallid,  lovely,  fluttering  hands. 

Give  me  to  conquer  men,  or  lands, 

Or  wander  on  a  shoreless  sea — 
I  would  obey  thy  least  commands. 

Curved  gently  as  long,  sea-lapped  strands; 

Translucent  as  chalcedony, 
Frail,  pallid,  lovely,  fluttering  hands. 

Be  they  as  many  as  the  sands — 

Or  nobleness   or   infamy — 
I  would  obey  thy  least  commands, 
Frail,  pallid,  lovely,  fluttering  hands. 


A  Fillanelle  of  Violets 

Love,  disillusion,  wild  regrets 

Within  me  stormed,  but  after  came 
This  Villanelle  of  Violets. 

[  15  ] 


Stately  as  ancient  minarets— 

A  form;  a  face,  riant,  to  claim 
Love,  disillusion,  wild  regrets. 

Eyes,  like  two  mystic  amulets, 

Held  in  their  depths  the  flowers  that  name 
This  Villanelle  of  Violets. 

The  purl  of  silver  rivulets 

Hid  in  a  voice,  and  in  that  same, 
Love,  disillusion,  wild  regrets. 

Fierce  lips — the  breath  of  mignonettes 

Between — seared  mine,  seared  these  which  frame 
This  Villanelle  of  Violets. 

Drear  thoughts  these  are;  swift  silhouettes, 

Where  erst  dwelt  she  who  did  inflame 
Love,  disillusion,  wild  regrets — 
This  Villanelle  of  Violets. 

Garreta  Helen  Busey 

The  New  Moon 

The  moon  is  a  slender  reminder 
Of  long-ago  fealty  vowed 
As  we  sat  in  the  curve  of  the  crescent 
And  dabbled  our  feet  in  a  cloud. 

The  cloud  was  a  puff  of  rose  petals; 
Of  gold  from  the  sun  was  our  swing, 

[  16  ] 


Carved  richly  and  hung  by  an  angel 
And  swayed  by  the  brush  of  his  wing. 

It  lulled  you  to  sleep  with  its  swaying; 
You  rested  your  head  on  the  horn, 
Till,  quietly,  as  you  lay  dreaming, 
You  slipped  to  the  earth — and  were  born. 

My  outcry  of  swift  desolation 

From  star  to  star  echoed  aloud — 

An  instant  poised  there  on  the  crescent — 

A  dive  through  the  rose  petal  cloud. 

The  search  has  been  lonely,  beloved, 
And  earth  shadows  darken  our  eyes, 
But  the  new  moon  has  let  down  her  ladder! 
Come,  let  us  climb  back  to  the  skies! 

White  Jasmine 

Tinkle  of  glass,  of  cups  the  genial  clatter 
Mingle  with  gay  inconsequential  chatter. 
My  lady  at  the  tea-urn  plays  her  part, 
Blushingly  fair  by  nature  and  by  art. 
"Lemon  or  cream?"  she  queries  graciously, 
And  pours  the  steaming  jasmine-scented  tea. 

Fragrance  of  Jasmine! — Lo!  the  spell 
Bears  me  across  sun-jewelled  deeps 
To  where  an  age-old  cloister  rears 
Its  slender  columns.    Near  the  well, 
Whence  russet  monks,  for  countless  years, 
Have  drawn  its  cool  and  sparkling  stream, 
Frail  jasmine  grows,  as  waxen- white 

[  17  ] 


As  tapers,  in  the  dimming  light 
Before  cathedral  altars,  gleam 
Unlighted.     Now,  with  falling  dusk 
And  vesper  bell,  the  garden  sleeps, 
And  nun-like  flowers  spill  their  musk, 
As  incense,  on  the  night — 

Through  time  and  space  comes  laughter  teasingly, 
Calling  me  back  to  courtesy  and  tea. 


We  Would  Forget 

We  would  forget  the  gold  and  purple  past, 
Rise  from  its  shadows  and  shake  free  at  last 
Our  wings,  all  drenched  with  beauty  and  with  pain, 
To  mount  exultant  through  the  sun  and  rain. 
We  struggle,  but  we  cannot  rise,  nor  spread 
The  pinions  of  our  spirits,  for  the  thread 
Of  love  has  bound  them  fast  to  other  years, 
In  clinging  cobwebs,  jewelled  with  our  tears. 


On  Reading  Poems  Old  and  New 

The  flavor  of  old  songs  is  on  my  lips — 
Songs  rare  and  mellow  with  the  flowing  years, 
Wistful  with  dreams  of  love,  sharp  with  its  tears, 
Catching  the  sea-gull's  rhythm,  as  it  dips 
And  swings  in  air,  or  pulse  of  wind  that  whips 
The  ocean;  battle  hymns;  the  chanted  boast; 
The  ringing,  fierce  "Aoi!"  of  Norman  host; 
And  songs  of  men  that  dared  the  sea  in  ships. 

Old  songs  are  put  away,  like  precious  wines, 
In  dusty  flasks  that  gather  cobweb  strands 

[  18  ] 


To  mark  the  years;  and  when  the  poet  sips, 
Drinking  such  Tuscan  sunlight  as  the  vines 
Drew  in,  long  years  ago  in  far-off  lands — 
The  flavor  of  old  songs  clings  to  his  lips. 


The  Lincoln  Ox-yoke 

1919 

An  ox-yoke,  rude,  and  marred,  and  weather-dyed, 
Fashioned  in  curves  of  strength  by  hero  hand! 
A  Lincoln  drove  the  shaggy  beasts  it  spanned, 
Across  the  prairie — he,  the  destined  guide 
To  liberty  and  union  nation-wide! 
Now  scarlet-belted  peasants  walk  the  banks 
Of  Bosnian  rivers.     By  the  creamy  flanks 
Of  oxen,  strong,  white-garmented,  they  stride. 
These  men  who  fought  for  freedom,  and  are  free, — 
Thou  home  of  Lincoln,  these  men  turn  to  thee! 
Their  land  new-won,  bewildered  still  their  thought, 
They  turn  to  thee  for  lessons  Lincoln  taught. 
To  wider  skies  his  standards  be  unfurled — 
Union  and  liberty  for  all  the  world! 


Rain  at  Evening 

I  saw  the  silver-footed  rain, 
Pursued  by  shafts  of  flaming  light, 
Come  stealing  down  a  forest  lane 
Into  the  depths  of  night. 

The  tinkle  of  her  passing  feet 
Upon  the  leaves,  came  to  my  ears, 

[  19  ] 


And  on  my  brow  fell,  wondrous  sweet, 
Her  cool  and  fragrant  tears. 

They  were  the  beauty  of  the  world, 
Distilled  into  a  magic  draught, 
Which,  from  a  leafy  chalice,  pearled 
With  shining  drops,  I  quaffed. 

And  thenceforth  an  eternal  pain 
Drives  me  across  the  moonlit  hills 
To  mountain  torrents,  where  again 
The  cup  of  beauty  fills. 

J© 

Helen  B.  Carr  . 

Domine 

Thou  sender  of  the  drifting  clouds, 
And  sower  in  the  sun, 
Shall  I  be  like  to  turn  to  thee 
When  all  my  days  are  done? 

Men  say  thou  canst  not  travel  by, 
In  valley  train  and  prairie  road, 
Stand  at  the  horses  heads  and  aid 
The  shifting  of  the  load. 

They  say  thou  canst  not  laugh  with  me, 
And  smile  upon  the  dawn, 
Nor  stand  with  me  on  silent  peaks, 
When  the  shades  of  dusk  are  drawn. 


[  20] 


Thou  sender  of  the  drifting  clouds, 
And  sower  in  the  sun, 
Shall  I  be  like  to  turn  to  thee 
When  all  my  days  are  done? 

A  Cat  Scratch 

par  M'selle  Mrrarr 

Chilly  little  ankles,  chilly  little  bean, 
Isn't  she  the  classiest  thing, 
That  you've  ever  seen? 
Rawh! 

Silly  little  topknot,  silly  little  heels, 
Like  a  "Dame  in  Paris" 
Seen  in  seven  reels. 
Haw! 

Vampy  little  spit  curl,  lampy  little  eyes, 
Wonder  what  does  happen, 
When  she  ups  and  cries 
Maw! 

Smartest  little  skirt  length,  like  potato  peels, 
When  the  blowsy  wind  blows, 
Wonder  how  she  feels? 
Caw! 

Cheeks  as  red  as  roses,  Lor'  knows  where  her  nose  is, 
Of  all  the  U.  I.  posies, 
Isn't  she  the  queen? 

Naw! 

Paw'd 
Jaw 

[  21  ] 


Maw'd 
Haw 

She's  too  raw 

AW! 

NAW!! 

Chorus: 

Chilly  little  ankles,  chilly  little  bean, 
Isn't  she  she  the  dumbest  thing, 
That  you've  ever  seen! 

@> 

Esther  Colvin 

Youth  Memories 

A  gray  house — near  a  gray  wood; 

A  low  stone  wall,  thick-covered  with  vines, 

The   bright,    tender    green    of    leaf-buds,    peeping 

through ; 
The  scent  of  wet,  wild  roses  along  narrow  lanes; 
Wind  and  driving  rain  and 
The  sullen,  deep  murmur  of  the  Merrimac: 
All  these — and — 

Death,  thin,  cold,  immeasurably  just, 
Lurking,  watching — behind  closed  doors. 

Lament  for  One  Just  Dead 

The  house  is  very  strange  and  still,  tonight. 
The  firelight  gleams  upon  the  wall 

[  22  ] 


And  touches  the  quaint,  carved  chair  in  the  corner, 

With  a  glowing,  tender  light. 

Outside,  the  dusk  calls  softly. 

Long  blue  shadows  stretch  across  the  lawn 

And,  in  the  West,  golden  and  beautiful, 

The  light  still  lingers. 

The  trees  along  the  avenue  are  gray  and  slender 

in  the  twilight. 
Through  the  open  window,  the  lilting  laugh  of  a 

child  floats  in — 
And  the  quick,  happy  tones  of  youth. 
Softly,  over  the  hush,  the  chimes  ring  out. 

I  shall  never  see  your  face  again — 
And  I  shall  never  hear  your  voice. 

Our  Street 

as  seen  by  Margaret  Ann,  aged  eleven 

Our  street  is  so  very  quiet  and  sedate, 

With  prim,  gray  houses  and  precise  gardens 

And  close-cut  lawns  and  hedges, 

That  even  the  wind  scarcely  ever  blows  there, 

I  think  it  is  afraid  of  the  people 

Who  live  in  the  prim,  gray  houses 

And  who  walk  in  the  precise  gardens 

And  on  the  well-kept  lawns. 

For,  just  around  the  corner, 

On  the  little  street  that  goes  twisting  down 

To  the  long,  blue  river, 

Stands  a  tiny,  English  cottage, 

With  roses  growing  all  about  the  wide,  low  door, 

And  with  tall  tiger-lilies  blooming 

[  23  ] 


And  great  trees  waving  friendly  arms, 

Over  the  queer-red-tiled  roof. 

And  sometimes, 

Cool,  soft  breezes  blow. 

They  set  all  the  green  leaves  whispering, 

And  the  tiger-lilies  blowing, 

And  the  roses  nodding 

On  their  long,  thorny  stems 

And  sometimes, 

The  wind  blows  hard  and  fast 

Until  the  green  leaves  dance  up  and  down 

And  the  roses  bend  from  side  to  side  like 

Great  tall  reeds  by  the  water-side 

And  the  tiger-lilies  riot. 

I  wish  I  lived  in  a  little  English  cottage 

On  a  queer,  little  street 

That  goes  twisting  down  to  the  river. 

J® 

Francis  C.  Coughlin 

Analogy 

Spring  does  not  come  with  fanfares  high  and  shrill, 

Ah,  Spring  comes  softly,  nonetheless  but  true, 

Over  the  quiet  plains  when  earth  is  still 

Under  a  silvered  chasuble  of  blue 

Then  little,  babbling  wood-locked  winds  beguile 

With  old,  old  tales  of  love's  sweet  retinue 

Both  leaves  and  lovers  for  a  little  while 

I  cannot  tell,  but  I  may  think  of  you, 

Ah,  love  comes  softly  nonetheless  but  true. 

[  24  ] 


Arthur  R.  Curry 

The  Jeweler 

The  jeweler  put  out  a  velvet  pad 

Pleasing  to  touch  and  yellow  as  pure  gold. 

Thereon  he  placed  a  row  of  glowing  rubies; 

Then,  nearer  me,  a  row  of  cold  white  diamonds ; 

And  last,  a  row  of  tranquil  amethysts; 

Then  looking  up  to  catch  my  admiration, 

"These,"  he  said,  pointing,  "are  erotic  sonnets, 

And  these  are  poems  of  the  intellect, 

And  these  are  of  devotion  and  the  spirit. 

Some  lapidary,  taking  stones  of  value, 

Has  made  them  into  gems  of  sparkling  beauty. 

But  see  you  this,"  he  said,  the  while  withdrawing 

A  purple  pad  whereon  a  necklace  lay, 

A  coil  of  lucent  pearls.    He  raised  them  up 

And  fondled  them  between  us  and  the  light. 

"No  lapidary,  friend,  is  vain  enough 

To  touch  an  instrument  to  one  of  these. 

These  are  the  lovely  thoughts  that  move  in  beauty 

Like  maidens  sporting  in  a  lily  pond." 

He  placed  the  necklace  on  the  purple  pad; 

Then,  looking  up,  and  pointing  while  he  spoke: 

"This  is  the  poetry  that  needs  no  art 

But  that  inherent  in  the  form  God  gave  it. 

We  make  our  diamonds,  but  we  search  for  pearls." 

The  Reference  Librarian 

One  day  I  thought  I'd  try  her  out, 
I'd  heard  the  neighbors  talk  about 
Her  having  special  education 

[  25  3 


To  help  her  locate  information. 
Well  now,  says  I,  I  want  to  see 
If  she  can  find  some  facts  for  me. 

I've  read  a  scattered  heap  you  know, 
Since  forty-seven  years  ago, 
And  I  allowed  to  ask  some  questions 
That  didn't  have  the  least  connections 
With  what  folks  are  supposed  to  know. 
I  wrote  'em  down  in  order,  so: 

What  is  the  height  of  Eiffel  tower? 
What  makes  my  apple  cider  sour? 
And  then  to  test  the  Bible  knowledge 
Of  them  that  study  off  at  college, 
I  asked  her  where  Cain  got  his  wife! 
And  last,  I  asked  the  source  of  life. 

I  thought  the  girl  would  be  amazed, 
Instead  of  that,  not  even  fazed, 
She  told  the  height  of  Eiffel  tower, 
Explained  what  made  my  cider  sour, 
Discussed  Cain  and  the  land  of  Nod, 
And  said  the  source  of  life  was  God. 

David  V.  Felts 

Chinese  lanterns  idly  swaying, 
Palm  hid  Sax  and  violin  playing, 
Couples  round  the  terrace  swaying, 
Moon  and  everything. 


[  26  ] 


But  I,  lonesome  and  rejected 
Watch  the  party;  I'm  neglected. 
Things  are  just  as  I  expected 
In  the  Spring. 


Spring  smiles  on  from  dawn  till  gloaming 
Nature's  creatures  go  a-homing 
Youth  and  maiden  idly  roaming 
Wander  hand  in  hand. 

Bursting  buds,  caressing  breezes, 
Nice  warm  mud  that  softly  squeezes,    • 
Little  birds  and  brooks  and  beeses, 
Boy!    Aint  Nature  Grand? 

To  Dorothy 

I  might  have  told  you,  you  are  very  fair 

(I  could  have  said  as  much  and  known  it  true) 

I  might  have  been  much  nicer,  Dot,  to  you 

(I  wish  I  had;  perhaps  I  didn't  dare) 

I  might  have  told  you,  you  have  pretty  eyes 

(I  always  liked  them,  brown  with  dancing  light) 

I  wish  that  we  had  danced  for  just  one  night 

(I  am  conceited;  yet,  that's  no  surprise) 

But  still  we  played  and  laughed  and  talked  each 

day 
And  ground  out  copy  for  the  "dirty  sheet" 
And  oftentimes  you  brought  peanuts  to  eat 
And  brightened  up  an  ordinary  day. 
But  now  you've  gone  and  left  me  where  we  played 
It's  Spring  and  nice  and  Gee,  I  wish  you'd  stayed. 

[  27  ] 


Marcus  Selden  Goldman 

Novum  Carmen  Veterum 

"I  praise  not  old  things  for  the  new  are  better." 
So  in  his  pride  did  once  Timotheous  sing, 
Till  drawing  near  in  wrath,  the  Spartan  ephor 
Cut  with  his  sword  each  golden  cithara  string. 
And  after  him  no  more  was  wondrous  music 
Heard  in  the  cities  of  the  Hellenes 
And  they  who  would  have  drunk  the  wine  of  song- 
craft, 
Found  in  the  Muse's  chalice  only  lees. 

"I  do  not  mourn  the  golden  age  of  heroes: 
Today  for  me  is  golden,"  Ovid  said, 
Turning  his  face  toward  the  present  glory, 
Turning  his  back  upon  the  mighty  dead. 
And  after  him  there  came  no  laurelled  poets, 
Winning  song-kingdoms  for  the  Latin  tongue; 
The  sisters  nine  forsook  the  banks  of  Tiber, 
Leaving  the  songs  that  might  have  been,  unsung. 

So  now  in  quick  impatience  and  in  anger 
Men  turn  them  to  new  verses  and  new  themes, 
Forgetful  that  the  art  of  old  is  deathless, 
That  youth  eternal  dwells  in  olden  dreams. 
Yet  may  the  gods'  just  anger  be  averted 
If  here  and  there  choice  spirits  still  shall  hold 
Unscorned  the  memory  of  old  songs  and  singers, 
And  tell  anew  the  tale  of  glories  old. 


[  28  ] 


Paul  Nissley  Landis 


What  though  of  late  we've  scarcely  met, 
And  each  has  smiled  on  other  loves, 

Does  ever  wanderer  forget 

His  home,  however  far  he  roves? 

Hearts  are  gypsies  in  the  spring, 
Knowing  not  a  fixed  abode; 

But  half  the  joy  of  wandering 

Is  coming  back  the  homeward  road. 


My  heart  is  like  a  little  road 

That  will  not  travel  true, 
But  wanders  ever  back  to  join 

The  high-road  that  is  you. 

But  high-roads  heed  not  little  roads, 

And  neither  know  nor  care 
If  little  roads  return  again, 

Or  when  they  go  or  where. 

So  must  we  wind  our  ways  through  life 

Till,  lost,  I  come  to  rest, 
Forlorn  on  some  forgotten  moor, 

Or  happy  on  your  breast. 


Ghosts 

Life  is  a  little  troubled  sleep 
Within  a  haunted  room 


[  29  ] 


Where  ghosts  called  Joy  and  Sorrow  creep 
About  amid  the  gloom. 

Twin  figures  of  the  fancy  spun — 

Though  very  real  they  seem — 
The  one  a  phantom  flame,  and  one 

The  shadow  of  a  dream. 

But  soon  or  late  a  dawning  light 
Breaks  on  the  dream-tossed  head 

That,  waking,  hears  from  out  the  night, 
Far  off  and  faint:    "He's  dead." 


When  as  a  child  I  found  a  pretty  thing, 
I  put  it  in  a  box  beneath  my  bed  — 
Trifles  like  buttons  and  an  old  doll's  head, 
Some  bits  of  colored  glass,  a  tinsel  string, 
The  crown  I  wore  one  Christmas  as  a  king 
Of  orient — and  on  rainy  days  I  sped 
The  gloom  of  lonely  hours  with  beauty  bred 
Of  these  bright  bits  in  my  imagining. 

Still  like  a  child  I  keep  my  little  box 

Of  pretty  fragments,  which,  when  gray  days  come, 

My  heart  with  memory's  golden  key  unlocks 

And  finds  again  an  almost  childlike  bliss 

In  playing  with  the  treasures  drawn  therefrom — 

A  few  soft  words,  her  smile,  and  her  last  kiss. 


Day  after  day,  year  after  year,  he  came 

To  dig  among  these  musty  books.     It  seemed 

[  30  J 


His  eyes  could  bear  no  stronger  light  than  streamed 
Dust-dimmed  through  painted  windows;   passion's 

flame 
Burned  not  his  shrunken  soul;  he  could  not  claim 
Companionship  with  men;  he  never  dreamed, 
He  only  dug  in  books,  and  this  he  deemed 
Worth    while   to    learn    how    Shakespeare    spelled 

his  name. 

And  all  the  while  some  truant  in  a  wood 
Thrilled  with  the  song  of  Rosalind,  and  one 
Unlearned  under  Juliet's  window  stood, 
And  for  an  idler  in  the  evening  dells 
Titania  and  Puck  a  romance  spun, 
And  Touchstone  tinkled  merrily  his  bells. 

Thrift 

John  Shultz  had  fifty  thousand,  wisely  placed 
In  bonds  and  mortgages,  and  lived  content 
To  farm.     The  land  he  owned  and  every  cent 

Were  his  by  virtue  of  an  even-paced 

Increase  of  seven  generations,  based 
On  poverty  that  counted  all  it  spent, 
And  learned  from  need  in  all  life's  testament 

One  single  law:     The  blackest  sin  is  waste. 

So  John  wore  overalls,  and  walked  to  town 
To  clip  his  coupons;  and  when  Doctor  Saul 
Said  that  young  John,  who  had  been  very  ill, 

Might  eat  some  chicken,  old  John  with  a  frown 
Spoke  of  the  lot  would  spoil,  and  wouldn't  kill 
One — since  the  boy  could  never  eat  it  all. 

[  31  ] 


H  ....  L  ...    .,M.D. 

"There's  something  less  than  courage  in  his  sneers 
At  pain,"  we  said.    The  careless  way  he  rolled 
A  cigarette  and  flipped  the  match  and  told 

The  hearse  to  come,  as  he  were  ordering  beers, 

Made  us  believe  that  what  he  lacked  was  tears, 
And  hope  we'd  see  him  shiver  with  the  cold 
Of  death.     "He'll  not  be  quite  so  bold," 

We  smiled  and  waited,  "facing  his  own  fears." 

They  came  to  take  him  to  the  hospital. 

Too  late — he  was  a  doctor,  and  he  knew — 
Knew  also  we'd  be  somewhere  near  to  watch; 
And  so  he  walked,  alone,  though  not  too  well 

Down  to  the  street,  and  for  a  last  adieu, 
Rolled  one  more  cigarette  and  flipped  the  match. 

Jim  Moore 

Jim  never  seemed  to  care  for  comforts,  or 

Perhaps  they  cost  too  much;  at  least  he'd  not 
Complained  a  bit  that  year  on  year  his  lot 

Had  been  to  sneak  about  a  dingy  store, 

All  crammed  with  bags  and  boxes  to  the  door — 
No  light,  no  air — and  then  somehow  he  got 
Into  his  head  to  buy  a  burial  plot 

For  him  alone,  with  room  for  twenty  more. 

And  when  we  questioned  him,  he  waved  his  hand 
To  indicate  the  litter  in  the  place, 

And  summoned  all  the  strength  he  could  command, 
With  joy  anticipated  on  his  face — 

"I've  been  so  damned  hemmed  in  here,  boys,"  he 
said, 

"I'd  like  to  have  some  room  when  I  am  dead." 

[  32  ] 


My  Heart  Grows  Faint 

My  heart  grows  faint  when  I  behold 
The  wives  my  friends  have  married; 

I  knew  them,  too,  when  they  were  girls, 

With  silken  hose  and  clustering  curls — 

And  figures  easy  to  enfold, — 
Thank  God,  I  tarried! 

My  friends  did  not, — deluded  churls! 
And  when  I  see  them,  there,  I  sigh, 
But  for  the  grace  of  God  go  I. 

Amor  Grammatici 

Reproach  me  not,  my  dear,  that  I 

Press  not,  impatient,  passion's  claim. 

I  cannot  love  like  Anthony 
In  words  of  singing  flame. 

For  I  was  born  for  milder  things — 
The  quiet  joy  of  books  my  part — 

And  schooled  to  shun  the  pain  that  clings 
To  high  adventures  of  the  heart. 

So,  safe  with  lamp  and  pipe  and  book, 
I've  played  with  nymphs  of  Arcady, 

Loved  Helen  long,  and  dared  to  look 
On  Venus  rising  from  the  sea. 


But  dead  queens  teach  not  lovers  shy 
The  grace  a  living  queen  to  woo ; 

Yet  count  it  something,  love,  that  I 
Renounce  them  all  for  you. 


[  33  ] 


rv 


f- 


Isador  Lipton 

Spring  Dawn 

Spring,  summer,  winter,  and  the  spring 
Returning,  to  the  woodlands  bring 
The  orioles,  and  the  orioles  sing; 

The  alder  boughs  bud  fresh  and  clean, 
And  there  the  silver  sycamores  lean 
White  arms  against  their  first  faint  green ; 

While  all  around  and  everywhere 

The  swirling  ground-mist,  like  a  prayer 

Rises  on  the  morning  air; 

Earth  lays  her  scented  bosom  bare, 
The  winged  winds  swoop  down  and  bear 
The  incense  they  have  gathered  there; 

And  to  the  flaming  east  are  gone 
To  lay  their  sacrifice  upon 
The  crimson  altars  of  the  dawn. 

O  What  a  Lover  Is  the  Seal 

Oh  what  a  lover  is  the  sea, 

How  soft  and  suave  and  fierce  and  free! 

See  with  what  a  hungry  hand 
He  laves  the  languor-laden  land, 
Fawning  at  his  maiden's  feet, 
Breathing  praises  soft  and  sweet — 


[  3;  ] 


Yet  I  know  that  in  the  night, 
In  his  passion  and  his  might, 
He  will  break  and  beat  and  moan 
With  fevered  eyes  and  lips  of  foam, 
And  in  the  morn  with  soothing  hands 
Caress  the  bruised  and  beaten  sands. 

How  oft  my  tingling  fingertips 
Caress  your  hair  and  eyes  and  lips, 
How  oft  my  frantic  fingers  tear 
The  wildernesses  of  your  hair! 

Oh  what  a  lover  is  the  sea, 

How  soft  and  suave  and  fierce  and  free! 


Listen,  Lem 

Listen,  Lem: 

Do  you  remember  now 

The  one  you  told  about  the  bloody  row 

You  saw  once  when  you  went  ashore 

At  Mandalay — 

Or  was  it  Singapore? 

Well,  anyway, 

How  some  black,  weasel-eyed  galoot 

Got  the  willies  drinkin'  dago  red, 

And  draws  his  bolo  on  a  strappy  Boer 

You'd  picked  up  at  the  Cape, 

And  tries  to  knife  him  dead — 

Just  because  he  didn't  like  his  looks; 

And  how  that  Boer,  just  in  the  nick  of  time, 

Grabbed  at  the  naked,  blue-edged  blade 

And  held  it,  buried  in  his  bloody  fist, 

[  35  ] 


And  slowly,  slowly  bent  it — 
'Till  it  snapt! 

It  just  comes  to  me  now, 

How,  like  that  plucky-hearted  Boer 

In  Mandalay — or  Singapore, 

You 

Gripped  the  naked  blade  of  life; 

You  knew 

The  poet's  business  is  to  take 

The  knife-edged  things  that  go  to  make 

The  life-stuff  of  his  art — 

Men,  women,  things — 

To  crunch  them  in  his  bleeding  fist, 

To  bend  and  break 

And  weld  them  to  a  purpose  of  his  own. 

0,  I  could  say  a  futile  word  or  two 

About  how  sad  it  is  to  think  of  you 

All  covered  over  with  black  dirt; 

But  I  know  you  don't  mind  it,  Lem, 

You  who  always  loved  the  smell  of  earth ; 

And  why  should  I  be  grieved 

To  think  of  you 

Dissolved  into  the  richest  dirt 

In  all  the  world, 

And  sending  up  the  tallest  wheat 

That  ever  grew, 

Yes,  and  the  whitest  morning-glories,  too. 

Out  on  these  laughing  prairie  lands 
Where  nothing  sad  will  grow, 
Nor  any  tree  more  solemn  than  an  elm, 
It's  hard  to  lay  your  dead  away; 


[  36  ] 


And  so  we  bring  the  willow  from  the  south 

And  pine  trees  from  the  north — proud  pines — to 

cast 
Their  great,  gaunt  shadows  o'er  the  plain  by  day, 
And  in  the  night,  like  old  Norse  gods, 
To  chant  their  swaggering  sagas  in  their  beards; 
The  while  their  drooping  sisters  from  the  south, 
With  tears  of  twilight  in  their  gleaming  hair, 
Bewail  our  dead. 

It's  somehow  good  to  know, 
That  somewhere  on  this  treeless  land 
The  great,  orchestral  pine  trees  stand, 
Crooning  chanties  like  your  own 
In  a  thund'rous  undertone. 

When  I  heard 

That  you  were  dead, 

Without  a  word 

I  turned  away — 

What  could  a  fellow  say? 


Solitaire 

Who  can  make  of  loneliness  a  song? 

It  has  no  love,  no  fire, 

No  fever  of  desire, 
No  beauty,  no  pain — 

One  only  knows  the  days  are  long.   .   .  and  long — 
Ah,  who  can  make  of  loneliness  a  song? 

If  love  comes 

In  a  swirl  of  passionate  dance, 

[  37  ] 


With  lifted  breasts 
And  waves  of  wet,  sea-tangled  hair, 
Her  fingers  pluck  respondent  strings 
Till  flesh  is  flame 

And  fancy  sings.    .    .    . 

Or  when  the  amorous  night 
Grows  musical  with  stars, 
And  that  great  pearl,  the  moon, 
Lies  buried  in  her  bosom, 
And  the  wind  of  a  sudden 
Comes  warm  from  the  hills — 

This,  too,  is  song.    .    .    . 
Or  pain — 

One  mother  hears  another  is  bereaved 
Of  her  one  only  child; 
She  writes: 

When  I  heard  that  your  baby  boy  was  dead 

I  pressed  my  own  child  closer  to  my  breast. 
How  could  a  plodding,  tired-eyed  mother  know 
These  simple  words  were  music   .    .    .   sad   . 

and  slow? 

Love,  beauty,  pain   .    .    .   these  things, 
Come  swift   ...   on  wings 
Storm-driven,  musical  and  strong — 

But  who  can  make  of  loneliness  a  song? 

Picnicking  on  Golgotha 

Three  crosses  rise  from  a  hill 

To  a  laughing  April  sky, 
Blood  and  black  against  blue 

And  mute  as  a  stifled  cry; 


[  38  ] 


This  is  the  Place  of  the  Skull 

And  these,  they  are  thieves,  these  two, 

The  other,  between  them,  is  Jesus, 
Jesus,  a  certain  Jew. 

"0  Christian  men  and  women,  Hell 

Is  yawning  for  your  souls  tonight; 

Repent,  the  Judgment  Day  is  near, 

Come  out  of  darkness  intu  light. 

Jesus  wants  you;  come  tonight; 

Don't  go  and  leave  him  in  the  lurch; 

He  can  wash  you  clean  of  sin, 

Come  to  Jesus,  join  the  church. 

'Behold,  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock.' 

Open  you  sinners  and  let  him  in; 

Do  you  want  to  burn  in  the  fires  of  Hell? 

Do  you  want  to  live  and  die  in  sin? 

0  come  and  be  washed  in  the  blood  of  Christ, 

He  suffered  on  the  bloody  tree 

To  win  salvation  for  our  souls, 

To  save  poor  sinners  like  you  and  me. 

Stand  up,  stand  up  for  Jesus  Christ, 

Hit  the  trail  and  take  the  cross, 

Get  off  the  devil's  payroll  now 

And  make  the  Son  of  God  your  boss. 

There's  heaven  for  Christian  men,  my  friends, 

Why  should  you  be  the  devil's  pawn? 

Join  the  church  and  the  preacher  will  say 

Nice  things  about  you  when  you're  gone. 

'Behold,  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock,' 

And  you,  you  sin  and  smoke  and  dance, 

There's  no  salvation  for  your  souls, 

You  haven't  got  a  ghostly  chance. 

The  devil  is  running  your  public  schools 

[  39  ] 


And  dragging  your  children  to  the  pit 
Of  Hell  with  heathen  books  and  songs 
Against  the  words  of  Holy  Writ. 
And  worse — since  Eve  and  Adam  fell 
And  you  young  women  paint  and  flirt 
You've  been  the  devil's  choicest  bait — 
Your  souls  ain't  worth  a  whoop  in  Hell. 
'Behold,  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock.' 
Come  on,  you  sinners,  hit  the  trail; 
Jesus  walks  by  your  side  tonight, 
He'll  keep  you  from  the  devil's  jail. 
Come  on,  come  on,  that's  right,  now  more, 
More  souls  for  Jesus,  hit  the  trail, 
We've  got  the  devil  going  now, 
There  go  his  cloven  hooves  and  tail. 
Come  on,  we've  got  him  licked,  come  on, 
Has  Satan  got  your  soul  enticed 
To  Hell?    Come  on,  0  Hallelujah! 
Hit  the  trail  for  Jesus  Christ!" 

Three  crosses  rise  from  a  hill 

To  a  laughing  April  sky, 
Blood  and  black  against  blue 

And  mute  as  a  stifled  cry; 

This  is  the  Place  of  the  Skull 

And  these,  they  are  thieves,  these  two, 
The  other,  between  them,  is  Jesus, 

Jesus,  a  certain  Jew. 


[  40  ] 


The  Bitter  Beauty 

Did  I  hear  someone  say 
Great  Homer  never  wept;   That  he  found  life 
Surpassing   sweet  and  sang   it  so? 

Suppose  you  were  a  poet,  let  us  say, 

And  you  chanced  to  be  passing  by  one  day 

The  storied  ruins  of  some  ancient  town; 

You  know  the  place,  here  heroes  lie;  there  is 

An  immanent  presence  in  the  very  stones 

For  you,  whose  ears  have  learned  their  lesson 

well, 
From  countless  bards  who  sang  their  great  re- 
nown 
In  camp  and  castle.    Ah,  here  is  a  theme 
For  some  old,  windy-bearded  bard  to  tell. 

There  lies  the  gate;  that  pile  was  once  a  tower; 
Here,  it  would  seem,  a  kingly  name  is  writ 
In  letters  of  eternal  stone;  men  say, 
That  forests  of  broad  pillar-bases  once 
Supported  colonnades  tremendous-tall 
To  grace  the  vast,  dim-vaulted  banquet  hall. 
Ah,  who  can  guess  what  giants  feasted  here? 
But  doubtless  they  were  such  as  fame  relates, 
Omnipotent,  with  iron-girded  limbs, 
With  steadfast  eyes,  straightforward  as  the  sun, 
Who  reveled  in  this  hero-haunted  hall 
And  garrisoned  these  lion-guarded  gates, 
And  then,  as  now,  the  sequel  was  the  same — 
For  men  may  feast  and  sing  but  men  must  fight — 
At  last  the  wonder-rumored  galleys  came; 
Your  poet's  eyes  can  see  the  storm-touched  prows 

[  41  ] 


Of  laden  ships  that  lean  against  the  moon 
On  distant,  unimaginable  seas. 

Why  come  they  here?     What  seek  they  in  this 

place? 
What  have  men  ever  sought?     A  golden  cup 
With  skill-wrought  lions  rampant  on  its  face, 
A  purple  robe,  a  jeweled  crown  or  two, 
A  helpless,  vanquished  graven  idol  vowed 
To  serve  before  the  triumphed  altar  of 
The  one  true  god;  but  more  than  all  things  else — 
High-breasted  women  sculptural  and  proud. 
They  come  and  on  the  sea-rim  they  unfold 
Their  tents,  all  tapestried  with  cloth  of  gold; 
What  men  are  these  that  come  to  plunder  lands 
Upon  the  perilous  bourne  of  all  the  world? 
Bronze-browed  and  cedar-straight  with  sea- 
bruised  hands — 
Of  such  are  these;  and  you  who  are  a  bard 
Can  see,  as  never  earth-blind  men  can  see, 
The  bristling  ranks,  the  strident  shriek  of  horns, 
The  thunder  crash  of  arms,  the  swift  retreat, 
The  years  of  siege,  brave  sallies  from  the  gates, 
And  then  at  last  the  sudden  breach  by  night, 
The  wild  alarm,  the  hard-contested  fight, 
Red  battle  rife  beneath  a  blood-red  moon, 
Where   drunken    gods    go    staggering   down    the 

streets 
And  tall  night-wandering  women  pass. 

Now  is  the  moment  of  all  silent  things, 
The  pause  before  all  final  answers;  calm 
As  folded  hands  when  all  their  work  is  done; 
The  delicate-fingered  daughters  of  old  days 

[  42  ] 


Are  dust  beneath  unworthy  feet;  they  sleep 
Whose  eyes  could  bend  the  brazen  will  of  kings; 
Their  alabaster  eyelids  are  as  still 
As  carven  eyelids  of  the  Buddha     ...     so 
Superbly  still   .    .    . 

Now  in  this  moment  such  a  wonder  is 
As  only  you  can  know,  whose  potent  hands 
Can  open  wide  the  many-bolted  door 
That  leads  to  purple  paths  beyond  the  sun. 
Time  was  when  gentle-spoken  shepherds  saw 
Wind-footed  fairies  tip-toe  down  the  stars 
And  kiss  their  lilac-scented  finger-tips 
To  all-believing  men  who  watched  below; 
This  was  their  boon  to  be  enraptured  so. 
Yet  even  now  who  can  but  weep  to  see 
In  sticks  and  stones  so  much  of  mystery? 
And  whose  eyes  but  a  poet's  eyes  could  guess 
That  trodden  dust  held  so  much  loveliness? 
And  is  it  strange  that  our  mysterious  eyes 
That  hold  the  mirror  to  such  loveliness 
Should  also  hold  the  chalice  of  our  tears? 
For  all  that's  lovely  is  sublimely  sad, 
And  he,  and  only  he,  will  ever  know 
The  bitter  after-taste  of  things  most  sweet 
Whose  eyes  have  seen  the   land  where  beauty 
slept — 

Who  said  great  Horaer  never  wept? 


[  43  ] 


Mirza  French  Mackay 

Cabin  Sleep-Song 

Clouds  am  a-sailin'  an'  win'  goes  woo-oo! 

01'  Mis',  Marse  Tom,  an'  lil'  Miss  Sue, 

Bettah  shet  'e  win'ows  up — goin'  fo'  to  blew! — 
Massa  ketch  'e  chicken-hawk, 
Massa  ketch  'e  chicken-hawk, 
Massa  ketch  'e  chicken-hawk, — 
Woo-oo! 

Mah  ol'  'ooman  make  a  hoe-cake, 
Sot  it  in  'e  ashes,  sot  it  fo'  to  bake — 
'Long  come  dat  'ar  good-fo'-nothin'  Jake — 
Massa  ketch  'e  chicken-hawk, 
Massa  ketch  'e  chicken-hawk, 
Massa  ketch  'e  chicken-hawk, — 
Woo-oo ! 

Heah  dat  chicken,  sizzlin'  in  'e  pan! — 

Come  to  'is  daddy,  daddy's  lil'  man; 

Ride  on  'e  hoss-back,  give  'e  lil'  han', — 
Massa  ketch  'e  chicken-hawk, 
Massa  ketch  'e  chicken-hawk, 
Massa  ketch  'e  chicken-hawk, — 
Woo-oo ! 

Heah  dat  Marse  Win',  tearin'  at  'e  do'! 

Storm  am  a-comin'  fas',  dat's  dead  sho'! 

Mammy's  got  'is  bed  fix',  dar  on  'e  fiV, — 
Massa  ketch  'e  chicken-hawk, 
Massa  ketch  'e  chicken-hawk, 
Massa  ketch  'e  chicken-hawk, — 
Woo-oo! 

[  44  3 


Anemone 

Anemone!  Anemone! 

Thou  harbinger  of  spring-to-be! 

The  gray  bleak  hills  yet  winterbound — 
No  bush  or  tree  for  miles  around — 
Are  thy  forbidding  proving-ground, 

Anemone! 

The  last  late  lingering  drift  of  snow 

Has  scarcely  disappeared,  when  lo ! 

Out  on  the  hills,  up  through  the  sod, 

Barren  of  green,  thy  bed  of  clod, 

Thou  pasque  flower  liftest  hands  to  God,- 

Anemone! 

Not  with  thy  cousin  lily's  grace 
Thou  show'st  thy  blushing  orchid  face; 
But  gowned  in  sober  velvet,  drest 
In  thy  prim  pussy  willow  best, — 
A  little  country  cousin  guest, — 
Anemone! 

The  Sunshine  State's  well  chosen  flower, 

The  emblem  of  her  prairie  dower; 

The  symbol  of  that  dauntless  band 
Who,  faring  forth,  possessed  the  land 
Where  thou  as  bravely  tak'st  thy  stand, 

Anemone ! 

No  sheltering  leaves  for  thee  await; 

The  settlers  of  thy  northern  state 

Found  no  more  barren  lodging  here 
Upon  these  open  prairies  drear, — 
Thou  sturdy  little  pioneer, — 

Anemone! 

[  45  ] 


J.  R.  McNeill 

The  Nature-Lovers 

A  country  road  winding  through  the  hills — 

A  man   and   woman   racing  along  in   a   powerful 

motor  car, 
With  a  butterfly  flattened  against  the  radiator. 

"Gee,  ain't  the  country  grand!" 
"Uh-huh,  nature's  wonderful  like  this." 

The  car  whines  out  of  sight, 

Taking  the  nature-lovers  back  to  the  city. 

Birds  fly  down  from  the  trees, 

The  shrill  cicadas  resume  their  song — 

Ah!  well,  the  butterfly  will  not  be  missed. 

Jeannette 

Your  eyes!     Jeannette,  mon  dieu!     your  eyes! 

So  beeg,  so  sad,  so  full,  heem  are — 
All  tarn  heem  have  ze  look  surprise, 

All  tarn  heem  look  so  still,  so  far! 
Mon  dieu,  your  eyes. 

Une  telle  petite  fille,  Jeannette, 

Such  leetle,  dainty  girl,  so  small — 
Une  telle  bebe  pour  Pierre  Marquette, 

Heem  fear  she's  are  no  girl  a-tall, 
Si  frele,  Jeannette! 

What  mak  you  cry?     I  see  ze  tear — 

Heem  cannot  hide  from  Pierre  Marquette; 
So?     You  grow  beeg,  an'  please  your  Pierre? 

[  46  ] 


You  are  a  foolish  girl,  Jeannette — 
Such  foolish  tear! 

Give  Pierre  a  kees,  you  bad  Jeannette, 
What  mak  you  seem  so  sad,  lak  thees? 

Give  Pierre  a  kees,  So!     Hees  forget 
Si  frele  bebe,  for  one  small  kees 
From  hees  Jeannette. 

Ah!    Pierre,  hees  very  strong  an'  wise; 

He  chop  ze  tree,  an'  mak  heem  fall — 
He  does  not  weep  ze  tear  a-tall; 
He  very  wise! 

But  Pierre's  Jeannette,  mon  dieu,  such  eyes, 
So  beeg,  so  sad,  so  full,  heem  are — 

All  tarn  hees  have  ze  look  surprise, 
All  tarn  hees  look  so  still,  so  far — 
Mon  dieu,  such  eyes! 


The  Dancer 

[I.] 

The  Dancer's  gone,  but  in  my  memory 
I  hold  the  rapture  of  a  wond'rous  night; 
It  seem'd  to  me  I  never  knew  before 
Life's  ecstasy;  that  night  its  mockery 

Was  torn  away;  now  life  shall  mock  no  more, 
And  truth  reveaPd  shows  as  a  dawning  light 
How  all  the  world  doth  dance  in  harmony. 

[ii.] 

Flotsam  and  jetsam,  down  at  the  sea, 
Dancing  and  whirling,  eternally; 

[  47  ] 


Out  on  the  ebbtide,  back  on  the  flow, 
Dancing  in  moonlight,  mystically  slow- 
Dance  for  the  dolphins,  dance  for  the  mew, 
Dance  where  the  waves  roll,  seagreen  and  blue; 
Dance  in  fair  weather,  dance  in  the  gale, 
Leaping  like  devils,  when  the  winds  wail. 

Flotsam  and  jetsam,  playthings  of  chance, 
Rhythmic,   eternal,   ceaselessly  dance; 
Waves  on  the  seashore  sob  mournfully. 
Flotsam  and  jetsam,  eternally 
Dance  for  the  lapwing,  dance  for  the  gull, 
Fast  when  the  winds  blow,  slow  when  they  lull. 

[in.] 

Grass  on  the  prairie,  dancing  slow, 
Nod  to  the  winds  that  gently  blow; 
Winds  of  the  south,  with  soft  caress, 
Winds  with  a  lover's  tenderness. 

Grass  on  the  prairie,  dance  with  glee, 
Dance  with  the  wind  in  ecstasy; 
Bow  to  the  flowers,  through  the  day, 
Dance  in  the  east  wind's  eager  sway. 

Trees  in  the  forest,  frenziedly 
Dance  to  the  north  wind's  buffetry; 
Bend  to  the  blasts  and  rise  amain, 
Dance  with  the  rapture  born  of  pain. 

Grass  on  the  prairie,  storm-tost  tree, 

Dance  till  the  moonlight  floods  the  world, 

[  48  J 


Then  while  the  winds  rest,  sleep  enfurl'd, 
Dance  in  your  dreams,  dance  dreamily. 

[IV.] 
Up  in  the  skies  the  stars  dance  with  the  sun; 
Whole  constellations  join  in  that  vast  dance 
And  human  folk  grow  old  ere  one  step's  done, 
And  kingdoms  fade,  before  that  far  expanse 
Of  dancers  has  begun. 

Dim  eons  pass — time  mortals  cannot  know; 

New  mountains  rise — the  old  are  worn  away, 
New  lands  are  form'd,  and  oceans  overflow, 

And  in  that  time  the  Cosmic  Voice  doth  say, 
"How   fast  the  dancers  go!" 

[V.] 
The  Dancer's  gone,  and  I  should  long  for  her, 
That  we  might  dance  again,  as  on  that  time; 
I  should  be  sad  that  only  dreams  remain 
Where  once  she  was,  that  I,  the  worshipper 

Could  let  her  go,  and  lightly  take  the  pain 
It  cost  me  then.   Her  memory's  sublime, 
'Tis  mine;  and  she,  I  sometimes  wish  she  were. 

Harold  McKinley  Mann 

The  Threnody  of  the  Mourning 
Dove 

All  night  I  lay  among  the  white  stones, 
Silent,  staring,  cold  white  stones. 

t  49  ] 


Jupiter  rose  to  cross  the  sky, 
Rose  to  follow  his  course  and  die. 

A  plaintive  longing  note,  the  mourning  dove, 
Lost  love,  lost  love,  lost  love,  lost  love. 

Swift,  a  slender  soft-curved  girl,  the  moon, 
Red  with  a  fleeing  passion,  love  at  noon, 
Fled  in  a  virgin's  half-unwilling  fear 
The  first  faint  warnings  that  her  love  was  near. 

Swiftly  she  fled,  but  swifter  still  came  he, 
Unsatiate,  love  untasted,  tokens  spurned, 
He  rose  from  out  the  far  off  Eastern  sea 
And  for  an  instant  there  as  one  they  burned, 
Their  flaming  loves  entwined,  forgotten  flight, 
A  blood-red  passion  kiss  of  lurid  light. 
An  instant,  and  remembering  she  was  chaste, 
The  moon   turned,  wheeled   in  flight,  a  ghost   of 
paste. 

The  cooling  sun  sang  with  the  mourning  dove, 
Lost  love,  lost  love,  lost  love,  lost  love. 


Prayer 

Out  of  a  sheltered  life  to  this 

Cold  kiss, 

Cold  kiss, 

Out  of  a  sheltered  life  to  this. 

You  cannot  understand,  you  say, 
Why  I  left  George  and  came  to  stay 
Here  in  this  place  of  passion  cold 
Where  love  is  bought  and  kisses  sold 


[  50  ] 


For  passing  gold, 

Where  souls  don't  count  and  painted  lips 
And  counterfeit  joys  are  the  only  sips 
The  spirit  finds  to  brighten  the  way 
Through  the  midnight  darkness  which  marks  my 
day. 

Listen,  have  you  ever  heard 

The  downy  owl,  the  evening  bird, 

Chant  through  the  night  its  monotone, 

Or  the  unaccented  megaphone 

Of  the  train  dispatcher's  soulless  drone, 

Sounds  which  beat  upon  the  mind 

With  a  flat  and  dull  relentless  grind? 

As  a  cliff  wave-washed  by  the  constant  sea 

Is  determined,  so  it  was  with  me. 

You'll  laugh  when  I  tell?     Don't  laugh  at  me, 

Not  all  souls  know  infinity, 

But  some  walk  sightless  down  the  road 

And  stumble  along  with  a  blind  man's  load 

Of  faltering  fear  for  the  step  ahead, 

Small  souls  who  think  that  the  dead  are  dead, 

And  do  not,  cannot  see  ahead 

Where  long  eternity  sits  crowned, 

Life's  little  moments  grouped  around, 

Of  many  parts  a  perfect  whole, 

And  beckons  on  the  seeing  soul. 

Two  tiny  rooms,  efficiency, 
We  slept  in  one  and  one  to  me 
Was  kitchen,  parlor,  sitting  room, 
And  at  the  last  a  living  tomb. 

The  month  of  April  was  the  best, 
A  straying  robin  built  her  nest 

[  51  ] 


Upon  my  window  sill.     She  sang 
Three  notes  which  in  my  memory  rang 
From  days  long  past  when  I,  too,  sang. 

With  May  she  left,  and  once  again 

My  heart  re-echoed  with  the  pain 

Of  boundless  soundless  quietudes, 

And  all  foreshortened  interludes 

When  George  came  home  and  ate  and  read, 

Said  he  was  tired  and  went  to  bed. 

Naught  else  to  do,  I  joined  him  there, 

A  cold  unlovely  married  pair. 

June  came,  George  said  we  needed  ice, 
He  said  we  needn't  mind  the  price. 
And  so  the  chest  was  filled,  I  set 
A  pan  to  catch  the  rivulet 
Of  melted  ice  which  dripped  away 
Like  stalactites  till  judgment  day. 

Drip,  drip,  day,  night,  drip,  drip, 
Silence,  silence,  drip,  drip, 
My  life  took  on  a  dull  grey  tone, 
Dripping,  dripping  monotone. 
The  dripping  ice  shut  in  my  soul 
As  ice  shuts  in  the  Southern  pole. 

George  would  not  understand,  I  knew, 
Helpless,  I  did  what  I  could  do 
To  check  the  sound,  I  fixed  a  board 
So  that  the  drops  ran  downward  toward 
The  pan  and  did  not  splash  or  drip. 
Once  more  I  felt  the  silence  slip 
Over  my  soul  and  under  me — 
There  was  no  death  on  Calvary! 


[  52  ] 


I  lay  awake,  the  silence  fell 

As  heavy  as  the  chains  of  Hell, 

I   listened  and  the  silence  seemed 

A  thousand  hammers  I  had  dreamed, 

The  hammers  all  resolved  to  one. 

Heaven   forbid,   0   Mary's   Son! 

The  board  I'd  fixed  so  well  had  slipped, 

The  whole  night  through  the  waters  dripped, 

That  morning  George  gave  me  a  kiss 

And  I  left  George  for  this,  for  this. 

Excitement,  change,  variety, 
Christ,  but  I   paid  to   get  the  three, 
And  now  I  offer  them  to  Thee, 
Pity  me,  Christ, 
Oh,  pity  me. 

J® 

Lois  Seyster  Montross 

Codes 

They  wove  for  me  a  little  cloak 
Of  worsted  brown   and   strong, 

They  wove  it  firm,  these  kindly   folk 
That  I  might  wear  it  long. 

I,  who  would  dance  in  gossamer 

With  poplars  on  a  hill, 
Or  wander  naked  with  the  wind, 

They  clothe  in  worsted  still. 

[  53  ] 


Dead  Leaves 

What  was  that  song  the  viols  played  the  moon, 
All    fair   and   golden-lipped   its   haunting   tune? 
There  was  no  song,  no  showering  notes  of  light, 
Only  the  mad  wind  weeping  in  the  night. 

What  was  that  love  that  gleamed  like  summer  rain 
Through  dangling  shadows — ecstasy  and  pain? 
There  was  no  love  nor  pain  nor  ecstasy. 
Only  dead  leaves  that  whispered  mournfully. 

To  Charmian,  Unborn 

My  body  folded  tawny  wings 
To  walk  with  slow,  uncertain  feet; 
My  body  put  off  silken  things 
For   linen,  humble  and   discreet; 

My  songs  that  were  as  butterflies, 
So  frail  they  bore  but  phantom  gold, 
Cling  to  the  earth  and  dare  not  rise 
Out  of  the  withered  grass  and  mold; 

My  laugh  is  dumb  that  fluttered  wild, 
My  hands  are  bare  of  shining  rings, 
My  soul  goes  fasting  that  a  child 
Be  born  for  silk  and  song  and  wings. 

Lapidary 

Thine  eyes,  beneath  arched  ebony, 
Are  jade  and  lapis  lazuli, 

With  turquoise  shadows  under  them. 

[  54  3 


So  locked,  thy  fingers'  filigree 
Enclosing  palms  of  ivory 

Are  perfect  caskets  for  a  gem. 

Ladyes  so  like  their  jewels  grown 

Have  flawless  hearts     ...     of  blood-red  stone. 

The  Stranger 

She  is  back  in  her  shuttered  house  again, 

Weary  and  alone. 

Talk  of  the  life  she  led  in   distant  cities 

Wreaths  up  like  smoke  from  the  chimney. 

She  walks  in  her  little  garden  at  sundown, 

In  a  torn,  black  lace  dress. 

The  sparrows  gossip  about  her 

And  the  tulips  whisper  she  is — queer! 


Have  you  known  what  snow  is? 

Have  you  known  it  as  a  sweet,  warm  drink 

That  puts  to  rest  unrestfulness? 

Have  you  known  it  as  white,  unscented  hands 

Holding  jasmine  flowers 

Gently? 

Have  you  heard  it  a  low  chord 
Sounded  above  the  city's  grotesque 
Hoarseness? 

Have  you   felt  the  serenity   of  snow 

Assuaging 

Your  fever? 

Tonight  I  walked  in  the  snow-calmed  street    .    . 
Tonight  I  know  what  snow  is. 

t  55  ] 


You  Say  Death  Is  Not  Sad? 

You  say  death  is  not  sad?     You  have  not  died, 
Followed  a  bier  tall-piled  with  broken  dreams, 
Nor  known   why  those  that   laughed   at   death 

still  cried 
Like  wild  birds  bleeding  in  their  loved  marsh 

streams. 
Perhaps    you    reasoned,    "These   had    thoughts, 

drew  breath, 
Sorrowing  so,  they  yet  were  living  most," — 
This  is  the  paradox!    Sight  of  death  is  death, 
Not  the  forerunner  but  the  dread,  grim  ghost. 
You  are  as  one  who,  deeming  Spring  was  all, 
Warming  his  days  beneath  the  unchanging  sun 
And  turquoise  skies  as  drowsy  as  Bagdad, 
First  saw  the  frost's  white,  steely  work  begun, 
First  heard  the  poplars  weeping  in  the  fall, 
And  said,  "Be  still!    October  is  not  sad." 

Galleon  Dawn 

Blue  day,  high   day, 

Sailing  past  mine  eyes, 
Like  a  graceful   galleon 

Bound  for  paradise — 
New  day,  tall   day, 

Tell  your  cargo's  worth, 
Let  your  masthead  clip  for  me 

Horizons  of  mirth     .... 
Slow  ship,  go  ship, 

But  let  me  first  surmise 
What  you  bear:   Nippon  ware, 

Peacock  vanities, 

[  56  ] 


Mauve  silk,  pale  fan, 

Brought   by   wavering    caravan, 
Indolent  perfume,  Mandarin  dyes, 

Ivory  carved   in  Hindustan, 
All  unload  and  load  again 

For  my  hungry  eyes. 
I   shall   stand   upon   the  shore, 

Fleet  day,  fair  day, 
Knowing  that  you  come  no  more 

Down   this   way — 
I  shall  see  your  proud  head 

Specked  upon  the  skies, 
I  shall  stand  with  bowed  head 

And  hungry,   hidden   eyes, 
Graceful,   graceful   galleon — 

So  faint     ...     so  far     ...     so  wise. 

"I  Am  A  Hedonist,  God  Wot!" 

I  am  a  Hedonist,  God  wot! 

Never   a  man   shall   say  me  not. 

E'en  Heav'n's   great  bowl,  it  could   not  measure 

The   pleasure   I   do    gain   from   pleasure. 

Why  should   I   have   for   other   goal 

Purification  of  the  soul? 

Pure  souls,   like  maids,   are  very   dull — 

Souls   do  not  make  man's  belly  full. 

Sir  Soul  cannot  a  lyric  write, 
And  singing  rhyme  is  my  delight; 
Methinks,  Sir  Soul  has  meager  cheer, 
Quaffing   no   ale  nor   rum   nor   beer; 
Sir  Soul  is  never  hale  to  meet, 
Nor  loiters  in  his  straitened  street. 

[  57  ] 


His  righteous  eye  of  flashing  steel 
Doth  make  me  like  a  school-boy  feel! 

But  Pleasure,  there's  a  goodly  wight — 

I  trow  he  chaffers  all  the  night, 

And  in  two  minutes  they  do  so 

Can  turn  a  sprightly  roundelay. 

No  song  there  is  he  doth  not  know, 

He  listeth  where  the  wind  do  blow, 

He  struts  and  hath  no  humble  thought 

And  knows  no  thing  of  "must"  or  "ought." 

Good  lack!      I   link  me  oft  with  Pleasure 

And  count  his  laugh  my  primest  treasure; 

Together  do  we  view  the  moon, 

That  swaggert  rogue  in  cloud  doubloon; 

We  dine  upon  a  pun  with  zest, 

Sup  pungently  on  dripping  jest; 

And  when  all  good  folk  are  in  bed, 

We  'gin  a  merrie  bout  instead, 

For  tongues   wag  best  when   liquored   loose, 

Which  is  of  aged  wine  the  use. 

I  count  Sir  Pleasure  such  a  friend 
That  to  him  I  my  gold  do  lend, 
Knowing  full  well  that  on  the  morrow 
All  unashamed,  he  more  will  borrow. 
I  labor  earnestly  each  day 
That  I,  at  night,  his  debts  may  pay, 
And  snubbing  cold  Sobriety, 
Forget  my  good  wife  Piety, 
And  when  she  chides  me  for  my  sin, 
I  know  my  fault  but  say  within: 
"Her  sad  arraignment  soon  will  end, 
And  I  shall  quickly  join  my  friend, 
And  mistress,  blithe  Inconsequence, 


[  58  ] 


(No  cousin   to  spare   Innocence)." 
Thus  do  I  seek  them  without  fail: 
Mine  Host,  John  Barleycorn,  is  hale 
And  jovial  and  lends  his  Inne 
To  many  a  quaint,  delicious  sin — 

(Hearken  the  wind  toy  with  the  leaves, 
Hearken  the  faint  rain  on  the  eaves! 
The  candle  flaming  straight  and  sure, 
Doth  make  our  little  room  secure.  .  .  .  ) 

— My  fair  wretch  spreads  her  satins  out 
And  taunts  me  with  a  pretty  pout, 
A  scented  nosegay  hides  her  face, 
Her  velvet  shoon  are  hid  in  lace 
And  bending  closer  then,  I  see 
Her  eyes  and  ankles  peep  at  me! 
Beside  the  chimney,  'stride  a  chair, 
Droll  Pleasure  tosses  back  his  hair, 
Stately  and  grave  as  any  lord, 
He  strums  a  fancied  harpsichord 
And  halts  with  gesture  and  grimace; 
While  on  his  brown  and  weathered  face 
The  very  shadows  love  to  trace 
His  precious  moods,  so  various, 
Mad,  fanciful,  hilarious — 

(Hearken  the  wind  wooing  the  leaves 
With  speech  now  tender,  now  jocose, 
Hearken  the  faint  rain  on  the  eaves! 
Inconsequence,  my  child,  come  close.  .  . 

— His  laughter  is  a  mellow  wine, 
Heady  but  sweet,  withal  benign. 
Thumping  the  deal  till  goblets  ring, 
He  shouts  wild  verses.    Hear  him  sing: 

[  59  ] 


"Life's  no  slice  of  pale,  white  cake, 

Gramercy !     Gramercy ! 
Life's  no  pastry  quick  to  bake, 

Tirra-lirra,  gramercy! 
Life's  a  hunk  of  blackened  bread 

Gramercy,  that's  true! 
Give  me  butter  thick  on  one  side, 
Not  thinly  spread  on  two!   ..." 

This  is  Sir  Pleasure,  this  is  he 

Who  owns  the  very  heart  of  me. 

I  marvel  at  such  folk  as  choose 

His  gaiety  and  grace  to  lose — 

Sir  Soul  doth  frown  on  song  and  color, 

He  dines  with  Duty  and  with  Dolor. 

I  claim  few  bounties  for  my  due, 

Old  World,  our  Squire,  doth  pay  me  few — 

The  rascal  stabbed  me,  robbed  me  twice, 

And  cheated  me  with  leaden  dice — 

Yet  I  will  grant  him  any  fee 

Save  losing  Pleasure's  company, 

And  never  a  man  shall  say  me  not. 

I  am  a  Hedonist,  God  wot! 

Missie 

"She  listened  to  his  verses,  smiled  charmingly  on  his  two 
years9  courtship,  and  at  the  end  of  two  years  married  the 
waiter  instead." 

— "Ernest  Dowsori" 
by  Arthur  Symons. 

Wharf-rat,  gamin,  coker,  the  leprous  and  the  lame, 
Stevedore  and  stoker,  he  knew  them  all  by  name. 

For  him  the  shadows  lengthened  to  serpents  on  the 
floor, 

[  60  ] 


For  him  the  shadows  strengthened  to  fiends  around 
the  door. 

Pricked  by  dreams  appalling,  mad  cold  and  mock- 
ing heat, 

He  wandered,  calling,  calling,  through  the  smoul- 
dering street. 

His  thoughts   like   blood   ran   gushing  till   Missie 

calmly  wrought 
Magic  of  stilling,  hushing — her  eyes  could  stanch 

his  thought. 

Head  on  Missie's  bosom,  he  fell  to  troubled  rest — 
She  dreamed  not  he  was  kissing  Cleopatra's  breast. 

It  was  not  Missie,  Missie,  dove-white  and  ripe  per- 
fumed, 

Nor  candles,  feckless  candles,  the  twilit  place 
illumed: 

For  Sappho,  Helen,  Circe  glided  in  golden  file!   .  . 
He  dreamed  while  Missie,  dreamless,  smiled  her 
rose-lipped  smile. 

Her  cheeks  were  pale,  lost  lilies,  a  fleur-de-lis  her 

hand, 
Her  charms  were  aching  rapture — she  could  not 

understand  .  .  . 

Oh,   when   his   fiends    came   thronging   her   touch 

could  make  him  whole, 
But  when  he  parched  with  longing,  she  could  not 

slake  his  soul. 

Missie,  unawoken,  played  her  idle  part, 

Nor  guessed  that  she  had  broken  a  poet's  heart. 

t  61  ] 


Empty  Spools 

Behind  the  red  glass  panels  of  their  door 
No  light  intrigues  us.     Now  we  hear  no  more 
The  husky  saucy  voice  of  blonde  Renee 
Winding  its  thread  on  spools  from  day  to  day. 

I  looked  inside  their  rooms  when  all  was  done: 
Trunk  taken,  cab  called — whirr! — and  they  were 

gone — 
The  dressing  table,  mirror-eyed  and  vain; 
The  stripped  brass  bed  where  stripped  brass  love 

had  lain, 
Quarrelsome  and  shiny  with  its  new  bold  look; 

The  gloomy  kitchen  appetite  forsook; 
The  pans  she  hated  and  the  wobbly  shelves 
His  unaccustomed  hands  had  nailed,  themselves. 
So  easy-visaged — silken,  blue  peignoir; 
Odd  rounded  petulance  her  shoulders  wore: 
"Don't  set  that  clock  so  early!" 

"I'll  be  late!" 
"Now  when  you  meet  me,  don't  you  make  me  wait!" 
"My  God!    You  wait  for  him!" 

"You  can't  forget 
To  throw  him  in  my  face — so  jealous  yet!" 

Recriminations,  tears  .  .  .  but  volatile, 
One  jests  and  laughs,  a  punning  imbecile. 
They  seize  the  ukulele  and  they  sing, 
Harmonics  crude,  vague  sweetness  of  the  string: 

"/  wonder  who's  buying  the  wine 
For  lips  that  I  used  to  call  mine, 
I  wonder  if  she  ever  tells  him  of  me, 

[  62  ] 


/  wonder  who's  kissing  her  now?" 

Even  in  song,  their  strained  determination 

To  be  abreast  of  high  sophistication, 

He  used  vaudeville  dialogue,  blase, 

Profane,  to  woo  the  nice  ear  of  Renee! 

Outside  the  million  little  wands  of  rain, 

By  necromancy  turn  the  streets  to  glass, 

Where  golden  headlights,  molten  fluxions  pass, 

Leap,  flash  and  vanish,  merge  and  part  again — 

Inside  .  .  .  they    sing    of   Egypt  .  .  .  Araby  .  .  . 

Oh,  Avalon!     Oh,  lapping  coral  sea!   .  .  . 

He  falls  to  swearing  dully  at  the  key. 

The  rounded  petulance  her  shoulders  wore 

Still  haunts  the  crimson  panels  of  their  door — 

Look!     Are  those  the  empty  spools  upon  the  floor 

Bare  of  their  tight-wound  voice? 

Did  blonde  Renee 

Grow  silent  suddenly, 

.  .  .  And  slip  away? 

Meditations  of  a  Dump-Heap 

Nobody  knows  the  innermost  thoughts  of  a  dump- 
heap, 
For  I  am  refuse  and  refuse  is  myself — 
My  body  and  my  soul  are  one 
Whatever  the  dualists  contend. 
I  know  I  am  scum,  I  know  I  am  filth, 
I  know  I  stink 
And  hobnob  with  the  rats. 
I  like  rats. 

They  are  more  subtle  than  the  dogs 
Who  visit  garbage  cans  .  .  . 

[  63  ] 


I  had  a  previous  existence: 

Ages  past, 

In  the  strange  cycle  of  life 

When  my  ego  was  in  chaos 

I  lived  in  garbage  cans  and  dreamed 

Of  being  free! 

Foolishly,  I  said  to  myself,  "There  is  another  life 

Vaster  and  more  coherent, 

A  life  lived  on  a  windy  slope, 

Spread  full  to  the  stars  and  close  to  the  clean  dirt, 

A  paradise  for  the  body  after  the  soul  is  sloughed 

off!" 
The  dogs  were  Orthodox  and  quoted  Plato — 
Victorian  beasts! 
.  .  .  They  were  wrong. 

After  travail  and  a  torrent  of  weeping, 
After  a  season  of  madness  and  sleeping, 
After  a  longing  and  lethargy  seized  me, 
After  the  god  of  the  dump  cart  teased  me, 
Out  of  the  pain  was  peacefulness  risen, 
Out  of  the  anguish,  rest. 

Sit  down  rats  and  listen — 

Hear  the  lake  beating  the  strong  chorus: 

Life,  life,  life,  life,  life! 

Not  one  bit  of  garbage  but  a  million, 

Not  one  longing  but  all  longing, 

Not  one  note  of  laughter  but  the  gamut  of  mirth, 

my  birthright  and  my  bondage! 
My  tales  are  greater  than  the  Mabinogion — 
Let  me  be  a  troubadour  to  you,  rats, 
Creep  into  the  lush  weeds  at  my  feet 
And  listen,  listen — 

[  64  ] 


Listen  tenderly  to  the  delicate  lyrics  I  can  sing  you, 
Listen  cynically  to  the  story  of  this  old  tin  basin, 
Listen  mirthfully  to  the  story  of  this  broken  plaster 

saint, 
Listen  with  hushed  hearts,  to  the  tale  of  Maryelle, 
Yes,  be  hushed  by  that, 
Be  hushed  by  that.  .  . 
Look  at  the  moon  a-tiptoe  on  the  lake-line, 
Quivering,    young    and    breathless    she    steals    in 

silence 
Behind  the  lacy  marsh  grass  and  the  goblin  dirt- 
mounds, 
Stepping  in  careful  rhythm  on  the  sharp  rocks 
Lest  she  might  wound  her  white,  white,  white,  white 

feet! 
Last  night  she  paused  and  dipped  her  fingers  in 

the  water 
And  flung  the  tattered  spray  high  on  the  shore, 
And  laughed  so  low,  so  low  I  could  not  hear. 
You  moon,  I  could  not  hear,  I  tell  you! 
Why  do  you  laugh  so  low? 
You  are  breaking  my  heart. 
Every  night  I  long  to  hear  you  laugh  aloud, 
Every  night  in  the  saffron  twilight 
You  steal  among  the  weeds,  inscrutable  vir- 
gin- 
Cold,  ah,  cold  you  are — your  soul  a  wisp  of 

gauzy  aloofness, 
And  a  surge  of  hatred  beats  me  into  madness ! 
And  I  hate  your  frosty  soul,  you  moon  un- 

conquered ! 
I  could  crush  your  breasts  with  my  two  hands, 
And  hurl  you  into  the  lake  you  torture  with 
your  calm  image 

[  65  ] 


And   you   would   either  laugh   or  cry  and   I 
could  say: 

"I — I  have  made  the  moon  articulate; 

She  smiled.     She  wept.     And  I  am  satisfied." 

Yet  .  .  .  she  is  a  moon  and  I  am  a  dump-heap. 
...  Be  quiet,  look  at  the  mauve  tendrils  of  smoke 
Twining  their  viny  path  about  the  latticed  chimneys. 
Tonight  the  gray  water  flows  into  the  gray  sky 
And  the  surf  echoes  the  whispering  of  the  little 

ingenuous  clouds 
Who  play  upon  the  sky's  pale  beach  of  saffron 
With  stars  they  think  are  fish, 
And  ask  the  big  clouds  silly  questions  about  why 

the  earth  is  pirouetting 
And  how  they  were  born  and  when  they  must  die. 
(Hide  in  the  weeds  until  the  dog  is  gone,  rats, 
He's  creeping  down  the  road  now, 
A  smug,  Philistine  smile  on  his  face.) 
No,  not  even  the  moon  can  hurt  my  heart  tonight — 
And  memories  are  beating  with  impotent  hands  at 

the  flood-gates  of  my  voice — 
Oh,  let  me  rid  myself  of  these  turbulent  thoughts! 
Come,  memories,  get  you  down  the  Romany  road  of 
remembrance 

Out  of  my  heart, 

Out  of  my  voice, 

Into  the  night, 

Into  you,  my  listeners. 

I  was  thinking  of  Maryelle. 

You  stand  before  me,  Maryelle,  so  almost  real 

I  think  I  see  your  dusk  eyes  vagued  with  dreaming. 

There  is  a  purple  shadow  on  your  throat 

Like  something  half-remembered,  half-forgotten .  .  . 

Somehow  I  fear  an  idle  wind  to  blow 

[  66  ] 


Lest  it  should  tear  that  shadow  into  petals. 
Maryelle!     Maryelle!   .  .  . 

I  am  a  maundering  idiot,  drunk  with  quaffing  life, 
But   life   was   a    damned    good   vintage,   old    and 

mellow. 
It  gave  me  a  red  nose  but  I  am  glad  I  drank  it. 

Runners 

Look!     The  runner  is  running  down  hill — 

Faster,  with  slack  limbs, 

Faster,  with  tense  limbs, 

Whichever  way — faster! 

Arms  elbowed,  fists  doubled,  breath  a  panorama  of 

desire  for  speed, 
Each  breath  a  new  picture  of  his  increasing  urge, 
Eyes  half  shut  like  two  crouching  beasts, 
Lips  parted,  nostrils  a-quiver,  hair  mobile  to  the 

fingers  of  the  wind! 

Night   is   running   with   him  .  .  .  look,   have   you 

seen  her? 
Naked  of  all  but  beauty  she  leaps  a-tiptoe  through 

the  pear  trees, 
Sways  a  breathless  moment  at  the  edge  of  the  dark 

brook, 
Smelling  the  piquant  gentians, 
Spreading  full  her  arms  to  the  coolness — 
Now  to  the  road,  the  curving  down  hill  road, 
Shadowed  with  memories,  fetishes,  mysteries, 
Folked  with  goblins,  pixies,  fays — 
The  little  people  look  up  and  whisper,  "See,  our 

splendid  queen  is  dreaming  toward  us!"  .  .  . 
Night  is  running  down  hill  with  the  runner. 

[  67  ] 


He  runs  like  a  patient  tiger  now, 

Tongue  lolling, 

Eyes  gold  with  fire, 

Pat-pat-patting  down  the  steep  hill, 

On  flesh-padded  feet  he  goes, 

Still  and  easy  and  breathless  he  goes, 

Silent  as  death, 

Missing  no  one  of  his  measured,  graceful  paces. 

Have  you  seen  Youth  running  with  the  runner? 

Where  night  runs  there  is  Youth, 

Youth  with  white  face  upturned  to  the  stars, 

Hands  out  to  break  the  prickling  bushes, 

Skin  torn  from  mullein-weed,  wildrose,  mint  and 

thistle, 
The  wet  cobwebs  cling  across  his  forehead, 
He  stumbles  on,  sobbing, 
Unknowing  why  he  goes. 
Following  .  .  .  leading  ...  he    is    running   with 

the  runner  down  hill 

The  sheaves  like  idle  peasants  at  the  roadside 

Hold  up  a  moon  lantern  to  stare  at  the  flying  limbs, 

Winging  the  road. 

They  see  a  new  hastener  now, 

One  who  runs  without  panting,  on  quiet  feet  at  the 
last  of  the  caravan, 

One  who  runs  looking  ahead,  never  behind, 

Never  sobbing  nor  murmuring  but  gaining,  always 
gaining; 

He  will  pass  Youth 

And  put  his  hand  on  the  runner's  glistening,  sweat- 
ing shoulder, 

Gentle  and  dignified  he  will  say,  "We  are  here." 

[  68  ] 


Look!    Have  you  seen  what  it  is  to  be  a  runner 
Who   cannot   pause   till    a   hand   thuds    on    your 

shoulder, 
And  smears  the  sweat  you  shed  like  blood 
And  stops  you  with  the  goal  far  distant! 
And  a  voice  cries:    "We  are  here" — 

To  be  stabbed  with  beauty  in  curled 
apple  petals  and  turn  cold 
as  you  lie  hushed  by  sky  hands 
in  the  lush  orchard  grass; 
To  know  suddenly  that  you  must  rise  and  run 
never  to  stop  running  till  the  last  hastener 
overtakes  you; 
To  tremble  at  an   aching  note  in  the  unguarded 

voice  of  a  thrush; 
To  feel  a  wound  where  no  poniard  came; 
To  laugh  exultantly  at  the  chanted  litany  of  the 

locust  high  in  the  poplars; 
To  see  that  Youth  and  Night  are  beckoning  you 

to  the  road; 
To  distrust  Youth  and  his  hot  breath  so  close  to 

your  throat; 
To  fear  the  dizzying  eyes  of  night  and  the  intoxica- 
tion of  her  breasts ; 
To  find  the  road  merging  into  a  swift  descent 
So    there    is    no    turning    back,    no    slowing    nor 

stopping, 
Faster,  with  slack  limbs, 
Faster,  with  tense  limbs, 
Whichever  way — faster! 

This  is  the  runner  who  cannot  pause  till  a  hand 
thuds  on  his  shoulder  .  .  . 

Look!    Death  is  running  with  the  runner  down  hilL 
[  69  ] 


Taj-Mischa 

[I.] 

The  earth  is  like  some  idle  Oriental 

Who  smokes  his  hookah  gaily  without  care 

For  any  money-maddened  Occidental 

Who  rushes  here  and  scampers  yon  and  there. 

Lie  still,  fat  earth,  so  meaningless,  so  gentle, 
Rest  on  your  elbow,  watch  men  rend  their  hair, 
Nothing  to  you  the  fight  of  tax  and  rental, 
Nothing  to  you  the  skimp  to  eat  and  wear, 
Nothing  to  you  the  cost  of  fish  and  lentil, 
The  privilege  of  roof  and  bed  and  chair. 

October  earth,  you  leisured  Oriental, 
Man  would  come  rest  with  you,  but  does  not  dare; 
See  how  he  gasps  and  runs,  poor  Occidental, 
Gaping  ahead  with  absent,  fretted  stare. 

[iL] 

Let  me  sit  with  you  here  upon  the  slope, 
Taj-Mischa,  gazing  in  your  crystal  ball, 
Let  me  look  clear  and  see  if  this  is  all, 

(The  crystal  ball  is  but  the  sky, 

Soft,  pale,  ingenuous  and  shy.) 

Well,  then  this  ancient  tale  of  Hell  and  God, 
And  rotting  bodies  gaining  from  the  sod 
Some  potency  to  rise  and  live  again — 
The  story  had  its  birth  with  shivering  men 
Who  hated  truth  and  shunned  its  healthy  glare. 
They  feared  themselves;  hyena-toothed  despair 

[  70  ] 


Howled    at    their    heels;    they    found    all    beauty 

"mental," 
Shunned  bodies,  warped  facts,  labelled  earth-things 

lies, 
And  died — nor  heard  again  of  paradise. 
They  never  knew  you,  idle  Oriental, 
And  now  you  mock  them  calmly,  without  care. 
Yes  ....  Let    your   mystic    smile   be   slow    and 

gentle. 
They  would  have  loved  your  rest.     They  did  not 

dare. 

[in.] 

Let  me  break  open  now  with  ruthless  hands 
The  silver  wrappings  of  my  woven  dream — 
I  long,  Taj-Mischa,  for  that  web  to  seem 
Precious  and  rare,  as  from  another  land. 

(I  am  like  some  old  immigrant  woman 

Who   pulls   a   shawl   from  a   dull,   lacquered 
chest, 

And  says,  "New  things  are  good — but  this  was 
fashioned 

In  mine  own  country  where  they  weave  them 
best.") 
I  wrought  this  rug,  Taj-Mischa,  from  the  strandings 
I  made  in  mine  own  country.    All  apart 
I  sat  and  drew  the  little  threads  of  longing, 
And  some  of  them  I  raveled  from  my  heart. 

Do  you  see,  Taj-Mischa,  do  you  see — 
That  saffron  sky,  the  purple  clouds  that  pass, 
The  workman  silhouetted  and  the  grass 
Like    delicate    lace    swirling    about    his    heedless 

feet  .  .  . 
The  still  pool  quivering  at  the  sun's  trespass, 

[  71  ] 


The  doves  low-flying  o'er  the  russet  wheat? 

Then  see  this  fringe  of  moons,  and  each  was  minted 

From  a  new  gold  as  love  has  ebbed  and  flowed: 

Nothing  alloy  and  nothing  poor  or  stinted, 

Much  of  it  burned;  but  much,  at  least,  has  glowed. 

The  first  moon  came  with  my  first  love, 

Pale  and  bright; 
We  plucked  this  moon  from  a  pine-tree 

On  a  spring  night; 
One  moon  hung  like  a  lantern, 

All  crimson  round, 

And  neither  spoke; 
One  moon  whispered  my  last  love's  name, 
My  heart  fell  to  the  ground  .  .  . 

And  broke. 

The  country  road,  curved  like  a  woman's  cheek, 

The  stark  trees  in  majestic  devastation, 

Iron  gray  like  an  old,  old  man,  and  bleak 

With  stern  thoughts,  yet  with  elation 

That  storms  turn  from  its  branches  yet — defeated! 

[IV.] 

Was  it  not  good,  Taj-Mischa,  to  sit  weaving 

The  tangled  threads  of  dawn  in  dusk  and  gloom? 

I  knew  that  very  soon  I  should  be  leaving 

And  come  no  more,  no  more  unto  the  loom. 

The  rug  I  made  an  alien  will  complete, 

Or  lose  the  skeins  or  tear  the  crimson  woof — 

I  shall  not  care,  with  coffin-lid  for  roof! 

And  you,  fat  Oriental  earth  whom  I  have  known 

So  intimately,  you  will  smoke  and  smile 

Nor  will  your  face  be  sad  a  little  while; 

Your  pipe  will  taste  as  ripe  when  I  am  gone. 

[  72  ] 


.  .  .  Yet,  some  day,  pounding  in  an  artery, 
May  you  not  yet  feel  the  dusty  blood  of  me? 
Ah,  when  the  worms  and  maggots  have  their  due, 
Taj-Mischa  ...  I  become  a  part  of — you. 


"I  Wear  a  Crimson  Cloak  Tonight'9 

In  vain  they  are  trying  to  make  account  of  Alan  Seeger, 
He  was  silent  and  none  seemed  to  know  him.  Only,  there 
is  a  tale  that  he  was  seen  one  night  in  the  slums  of  Bos- 
ton wearing  a  red  cloak, 

I  wear  a  crimson  cloak  tonight, 
Villon,  Villon,  look  down  and  see 
I  wander  insolent  and  free, 

Free  as  the  wind  in  Montfaugon — 

And  is  thy  droll  ghost  there,  Villon, 

Thy  spirit  as  my  flesh  bedight? 

Ah,  would  I  might  lock  arms  with  thee, 

I  wear  a  crimson  cloak  tonight. 

Marlowe,  in  doublet  slashed  with  gold, 

Insouciant  as  a  drunken  star, 

Surely  no  Lethean  mandates  bar 
This  life  from  death,  as  dark  from  light? 
I  wear  a  crimson  cloak  tonight, 
Bold  is  my  heart,  my  trappings  bold — 

Thy  rich,  bright  laugh  I  hear  afar, 
Marlowe,  in  doublet  slashed  with  gold. 

I  wear  a  crimson  cloak  tonight, 

Dowson,  Baudelaire,  Verlaine! 

I,  too,  have  seen  Octobers  wane 
And  watched  decadent  Love  pass  by 
With  naked  feet  and  drooping  eye, 

t  73  ] 


With  throat  of  laughter,  lips  of  light; 
Trembling  to  hear  thy  songs  again 
I  wear  a  crimson  cloak  tonight. 

The  fainting  moon  is  wan  and  white, 
Our  silken  courtesan,  the  moon — 
Ah,  brothers,  hast  thou  watched  her  swoon? 

Over  the  stars  ye  lean  to  tell : 

Death  is  an  endless  villanelle 

That  Life  frees  poet-hands  to  write  .... 
I'll  join  thy  vagabondia  soon, 

I  wear  the  crimson  cloak  tonight! 

Wm.  B.  Mowery 

Hokku 

WALKING  ON  SKULLS 

I  would  not  carry  clay  from  the  far  slope 
Nor  stones  from  the  river-bed. 

I  would  build  my  House  of  pine-tree  boughs 
And  fragrant  calomel  rushes. 

The  small  cloud  that  dallied  in  the  western  sky 
Meant  no  good  for  me. 

I  stood  by  a  sheltering  rock  watching  mad  winds 
Tear  my  House  to  shreds. 

[  74  ] 


At  night  in  the  tornado -wreckage 
The  dead,  upturned  faces  are  white. 

Through  I  travel  down  a  pleasant  valley 
At  night  the  faces  will  be  white. 

These  dead  white  faces  will  lie  in  the  wreckage 
Youth  made  a  mansion  of. 

Yea,  I  will  carry  stones  and  clay 
There  will  be  no  more  faces. 

[i] 

FAULTS 

There  are  thunderclouds  on  the  sky  around  me; 
Overhead  it  is  clear. 

[II] 
POETRY 

Quick  white  snakes  are  playing  in  the  dark  clouds; 
And  through  my  soul  a  song  leaps. 

[HI] 
VANISHING 

Where  is  the  cloud  I  saw  last  evening; 
Or  the  Girl  I  used  to  love? 

VERSE 

In  the  fields  flit  butterflies;  in  my  heart,  songs. 
Behold!  I  have  caught  one. 

[  75  ] 


The  keen  pencils  on  my  desk  are  greyhounds 
That  race  after  little  songs. 

VANITY 

Big  Jake,  strongest  man  in  the  steel  yard, 
Swallowed  a  fly  and  went  home  sick. 

FRIENDSHIP 

The  robins  are  very  friendly  now; 
Our  cherry  trees  are  turning  red. 

UNCERTAINTY 

Is  that  a  soft  viola  singing 

Or  my  friend  reading  lyric  verses? 

RAIN 

A  few  big  drops  go  thumping  by 
Like  scouts  before  a  heavy  rank; 
The  cock  is  running  for  the  barn; 
The  old  dog  on  the  grassy  bank 
Neglects  to  snap  the  teasing  fly; 
A  woman  gathers  up  in  haste 
Some  clothes  spread  on  the  grass  to  dry; 
A  farmer  frantic  in  his  hay 
Is  swearing  that  it  did  not  stay 
As  clear  as  it  was  all  last  week 
And  give  him  just  another  day; 
And  Barefoot  races  down  the  lane 
To  get  the  cows  before  the  rain; 
And  evening  comes  before  her  turn, 
And  long  before  the  sun  has  set 
The  candles  in  the  farm-house  burn. 


[  76  ] 


Chas.  Edmund  Noyes 

Tonight 

Tonight,  I  hold  the  thought  of  you 
As  though  it  were  a  fragile  thing; 

If  you  were  all  of  melody 
I  could  not  sing. 

But  when  my  lips  are  turned  to  earth, 
My  heart  to  Love  again, 

Somewhere  beyond  all  memory 
You  will  remain. 

Song 

While  yet  the  silver  cord  is  fast 

And  the  golden  bowl  unbroken 
Or  ever  the  silken  night  is  past 

Or  the  smooth  steel  words  be  spoken, 
There  is  time  for  dreams  and  for  satin  dreams, 

There  is  time  for  fantasy, 
And  I  shall  write  on  the  faithless  streams 

A  little  song  of  thee. 
And  when  it  fades  as  the  streams  flow  on 

I  think  I  shall  not  care, 
But  you  will  know  when  the  hour  is  gone 

That  once  a  song  was  there. 

Demiurge 

After  they're  gone,  the  fine  despised  illusions, 
Love,  and  the  dreams  we  say  are  never  true — 

[  77  ] 


When  laughter  is  no  more  a  careless  fountain 

And  you  are  only  you; 

When  these  things  are,  (as  we  have  known  they'll 

be), 
Then  will  there  be  an  end  to  all  delusions? 
And  shall  we  see  (as  we  are  sure  we'll  see) 
The  whole  of  our  white-gleaming  distant  mountain, 
Place  where  our  dreams  are,  standing  very  near, 
Misty  through  clouds  no  longer,  plain  and  cold, 
No  fairyland,  but  dreams  we've  had,  made  clear, 
When  we  are  old? 

Perhaps  we  travel  ever  toward  the  place, 
In  death  attaining  one,  the  last  bright  dream; 
And  yet  I  think  we  could  not  bear  to  face 
A  time  when  fancies  quite  unveiled  should  gleam 
So  close  at  hand. 

Blindness,  I  think,  would  cut  the  light  before 
We  saw,  or  that  dim  mist  where  fancies  stand 
Vanish,  and  show  behind  an  empty  space, 
Smooth   desert,   where   we  two   should   dream  no 

more, 
There  left  to  wander  on  forever,  groping 
In  that  bright  land  with  no  far  mystery, 
For  some  mirage-like  trick  of  memory 
And  vanished  hoping. 

<® 

Lem  Phillips 

Before  Sailing 

Let's  drink  a  toast  to  ourselves,  then,  brothers, 
A  toast  to  men  of  our  kind, 

[  78  ] 


For  we'll  see  no  more  of  the  others 
When  the  pier  head's  left  behind. 

Let's  drink  a  toast  to  the  sailor-man 

In  a  draught  of  fiery  liquor, 
For  we'll  soon  have  done  with  the  landsman  clan 

When  the  salt  sea  crusts  our  slicker. 

The  landsman's  kind  is  not  our  kind, 

He  is  bound  by  an  earthen  fetter, 
And  we  are  as  free  as  the  heaving  brine 

And  we  count  our  freedom  better, 

Aye — better  than  the  glowing  hearth 

Are  the  blue  green  seas  we  roam, 
And  better  the  stinging  gale  from  the  north 

Than  the  love  of  a  lass — and  home. 

Aye,  a  loving  lass  and  a  hearthstone  warm 

Are  the  strength  of  a  man  ashore, 
But  the  strength  of  a  ship  in  a  rocking  storm 

Is  ours,  and  we  ask  no  more. 

So,  Drink!     On  the  next  high  tide  we  are  sailing, 

We  who  were  born  to  roam 
And  our  lives  like  a  white  frothed  wake  go  tra  ling 

Till  the  sea  has  claimed  its  own. 


Sugar 


Niggers  sweating  under  the  burning  sun 
In  Cuban  cane-fields. 

Guinea  stevedores  in  the  stinking  hold  of  a  sugar 
ship — 

[  79  ] 


Stumbling  under  three  hundred  bags. 

Polacks  shuffling,  heavy  footed, 

Changing  shifts  at  a  refinery. 

Girls  in  a  long  row — 

With  tired  eyes 

And  drooping  shoulders 

Filling  gaudy  colored  boxes. 

Another  girl 

Leaning  back  in  the  soft  cushions  of  a  limousine 

Offers  Fido  a  bonbon. 

A  Scholar 

I  have  red  blood  in  my  veins 

And  a  strong  body 

Fit  for  work. 

I  have  a  broad  back 

And  thick  muscled  arms 

That  can  handle  a  stoker's  slice  bar. 

My  hand  has  known  the  feel  of  the  throttle. 

I  have  been  the  master  of  power. 

I  have  stood  between  the  roaring  cranks 

And  been  not  afraid. 

I  have  strong  gripping  fingers 

That  have  held  me  firm 

On  the  swaying  mast. 

I  have  skill  in  my  hands  to  steer  a  steady  course 

In  a  stormy  sea. 

I  have  eyes  to  mark  a  distant  light 

And  a  deep-throated  voice  to  report  it. 

I  have  red  blood  in  my  veins 
And  a  strong  body 
Fit  for  work, 

[  80  ] 


Yet  I  have  put  oval  panes  of  glass 

Before  my  eyes, 

That  I  might  drink  a  diluted  cup  of  life 

From  a  printed  page 

God!     I  am  lazy! 


Earth  Hunger 

Wind  of  the  Spring, 

Soft  warm, 

Toys  in  my  hair  like  fingers  of  love. 

Rich  smells  of  earth 
Ascend  to  my  nostrils 
From  the  greening  sod. 

I  fling  myself  face  down 

On  your  broad  bosom,  Old  Mother. 

I  stretch  wide  my  arms 

And  clutch  the  black  mould  with  my  fingers, 

To  feel  that  I  hold  you. 

Hold  me  close  to  you, 

Oh,  broad-breasted  Mother  of  All. 

Let  me  feel  my  kinship 

To  the  sweet-smelling  loam. 

Let  me  feel  the  tumult  of  life 

Expanding  within  you, 

Reverberate  in  my  own  bosom. 

Make  me  humble  before  you,  Old  Mother, 
And  arrogant  before  conventions  of  man. 
Fill  my  mind  with  your  enduring  truth, 
And  cleanse  it  of  his  sophistries. 

Let  me  creep  closer, 
Oh,  all-containing  Earth. 


[  81  ] 


I  bare  my  breast  to  feel  the  soft  moist  soil. 
I  bury  my  face 

To  breathe  deep  of  your  fragrance — 
Enraptured  to  be  a  part  of  you. 

Winter  Sunset 

The  sun  sinks  cold  in  the  grey  sky's  field, 
Glazing  it  o'er  with  a  brassy  shield. 

My  heart,  I  think,  is  cold  and  hard 
As  the  brassy  shield  of  the  sky, 

For  I  thought  of  myself  and  my  own  reward 
And  passed  a  beggar  by. 

Spring  Song 

Fresh  is  the  wind  in  my  face  tonight; 

Sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  new  green  sod; 
Gold  in  the  blue  is  the  moon's  fair  light; 

Soft  under-foot  are  the  paths  I  trod. 

Old  as  the  valleys,  the  song  I  sing; 

Life  in  the  mould  of  the  earth  set  free; 
Love  born  anew  and  the  lark  a-wing 

Spring  in  the  wind  and  the  heart  of  me. 

Old  is  the  song  of  the  Spring  and  youth, 
Yet  would  I  sing  it  again  to  you: 

Time  is  the  gauge  and  the  test  of  truth; 
True  is  my  song  and  my  love  for  you. 

Still  They  Think  of  War 

Still  they  think  of  war, 

And  two  healing  years  of  peace 

[  82  ] 


Have   not    yet   purged   the   gore-soaked    fields    of 

France. 
Empty  trenches  stretch  half  the  breadth  of  Europe, 
Like  raw  gaping  wounds  in  the  green  earth. 
Sightless  eyes  hideous  behind  dark  glasses; — 
Coat  sleeves  hanging  empty — 
Workmen  fainting  at  their  tasks, 
Clutching  at  their  throats  in  agony — 
Hissing  to  their  comrades, 
"Gassed — Argonne." 

Mankind  shattered  with  bleeding  bandaged  head — 
And  still  they  think  of  war. 

I  lie  in  the  sweet  smelling  meadows 

Of  my  own  prairies 

To  listen  to  the  meadow-lark 

Sing  promises  of  Spring, 

And  over  the  rolling  hill-top 

Down  a  narrow  lane 

Rides  a  squadron  of  cavalry, 

Their  sabers  clanking, 

Hungry  for  blood, 

And  the  hoofs  of  the  horses 

Resounding  on  the  soft  earth 

Like  the  beat  of  a  muffled  drum 

In  a  dead  march — 

Still  they  think  of  war. 

To  Pain 

What  though  thy  presence  lines  my  face,  0  Pain, 
And  racks  my  aching  body,  filled  with  ills, 
I  shrink  not  from  thy  power;  I  know  it  fills 
My  soul  with  wisdom  and  a  proud  disdain, 

[  83  ] 


For  petty  human  frailties  that  reign 
In  this  base  flesh,  o'er  which  my  conquering  will 
A  faster  fort  from  knowing  thee  doth  build. 
I  welcome  thee,  that  bring  triumphs  attained. 

I  know  that  thou  and  Sorrow  bring  to  me, 
Great  visions,  born  of  sleepless  nights  when  I 
Lie  ill  abed  and  hear  the  world  roar  by; 
Full  visions,  only  thou  can'st  make  me  see, 
And  though  thou  bringst  me  age  that  should  be 

youth, 
I  welcome  thee,  for  thou  art  life  and  truth. 

Raymond  A.  Seng 

Summer  Rain 

Rain  and  the  gray  mist  swirling, 

Swirling  over  the  lake, 
Thin  waves  softly  curling 

With  never  a  whitened  break; 

Drenched   crows  winging  blackly 

Into  the  leaden  sky, 
Poplars  swaying  slackly, 

Swallows  that  wheel  and  cry. 

Over  the  days  you're  calling 
Singing  your  wonderful  lays, 

Weaving  your  spell  enthralling, 
Strangely  sweet  rainy  days. 

[  84  ] 


Song 

A  lady  lived  in  Lesbos 

A  long,  long  age  ago, 
A  lady  lived  in  Lesbos, 

I  loved  that  lady  so. 

But  she  was  made  of  blue  sky, 
And  I  was  made  of  clay, 

And  she  sang  songs  like  moonlight 
All  the  golden  day. 

A  lady  lived  in  Lesbos, 

That  lady  is  a  star, 
0  lady  thou  of  Lesbos, 

I  still  love  thee  afar. 


Bliss  Seymour 

Spring  on  The  Prairie 

Spring  across  the  prairie,  with  pussy-willows  flying, 
Nests  of  golden  glory  in  the  hearts  of  daffodils, 
Rolling  green  of  meadows,  and  the  breezes  sigh- 
ing— 
(I  wonder  if  the  redbud  is  aflame  against  the 
hills!) 

Sky  against  the  prairie,  and  apple-blossoms  blow- 
ing, 

[  85  ] 


Meadow-larks  a'  carolling  that  all  the  world's  in 
bloom, 
Robins,   mad   with   melody,   where  the   spring   is 
glowing, 
(But,   oh,  to  hear  the  whip-poor-wills,  wailing 
through  the  gloom!) 

Singing  in  the  sunshine,  laughter  in  the  gloaming, 

Breath  of  flower-fragrance,  through  the  dreaming 

air, 

Sun  upon  the  prairie,  and  all  the  world  is  homing, 

(But  spring   creeps   down  the  hillsides,  and  I 

cannot  be  there!) 

Ghost  Night 

There's  a  tricky  moon  in  the  sky  tonight, 
And  the  world  is  doing  a  thousand  things; 

The  trees,  lifting  longing  arms  to  light, 
Sway  to  the  song  that  the  darkness  sings. 

The  fireflies  are  loves  which  were  never  born; 
The  moon  is  more  cruel  than  dead  dreams  are, — 
*         *         *         • 

I've  tangled  my  hair  in  the  white  hawthorn, 
And  wounded  my  heart  on  a  pointed  star! 

The  Philanderer 

I  remember  Philip's  eyes, 

Brown  as  russet-drying  furze — 

Ah,  but  he  was  worldly  wise, 
King  of  all  Philanderers! 

[  86  ] 


He'd  a  sweeping  throat,  and  hair 
Burnt  like  butter-nuts  in  fall, 

And  a  fancy  light  as  air, 

But  a  conscience — none  at  all. 

He  could  drink  the  ruddy  wine 
Of  a  barmaid's  laughing  lips, 

Or,  as  easily,  kiss  the  shrine 
Of  a  vestal's  finger  tips. 

Once  the  fingers  were  possessed 
He  must  needs  sit  by  her  side. 

Russet  eyes  could  do  the  rest. 
(Vestals  were  his  special  pride.) 

There  was  once  a  maid,  folks  say, 
Scorned  him  as  he  sauntered  by — 

Let  them  tell  it  as  they  may — 
I  am  sure  it  wasn't  I! 

W  onder-W  diking 

There  is  a  wonder  in  walking  home, 

And  gathering  dreams  all  along  the  way, 

Choosing  the  furnishings  for  my  heart. 
.  .  .  Here  are  the  ones  that  I  found  today 

A  house  with  a  rain-barrel  painted  blue; 

A  crooked  brass  lantern  over  a  door; 
The  ruffle  of  clouds  in  a  gentle  sky; 

The  wind-silvered  leaves  of  a  sycamore. 

A  crippled  boy,  whistling  a  marching  song; 
A  quilt,  sewn  with  hollyhocks  on  a  line; 

[  87  ] 


Then,  sudden  and  sweet,  from  a  weathered  hedge, 
The  drifting  perfume  of  the  eglantine. 

There  is  a  wonder  in  coming  home, 

Bringing  in  dreams  from  along  the  way, 

Colorful  tapestries  for  my  heart. 

.  .  .  These  are  the  ones  that  I  found  today! 

The  Stadium 

Like  autumn  leaves  that  flutter  and  grow  still, 
The  rooters  hush  and  sink  into  their  places, 
The  gripping  moment  over.    In  their  faces, 

(Young  faces,  burning  with  the  combat's  thrill, 

And  yet  quite  strangely  old  and  sober-eyed)  — 
No  thought  dares  enter  of  another  game 
When  killing  and  not  scoring  was  their  aim, 

And  all  of  them  fought  on  the  selfsame  side. 

Yet  we  remember  them,  and  all  those  others 
Who  lie  in  France.     The  Stadium's  grey  stones 
Forbid  us  to  forget;  the  shadow  tones 

Across  the  field  make,  living  and  dead,  brothers. 
And  in  the  shouting  we  recall  a  day 
When  death  came  to  the  loser  in  the  play. 

Constance  Miriam  Syford 

Tints  and  Undertones 

Cosmos  and  daisies  calico-wise 
In  a  dull  gray  field  of  fern; 

[  88  ] 


Sprinklings  of  rose  on  a  morning  of  mist 
Relaxing  my  passion  in  dream; 
Green  soft  leaves  and  tall  grass  reeds 
Cooling  my  head  in  their  shade — 
I  lie  watching  the  wall-paper  move. 


Mirrors  of  rain — 
Broken  shadows 
Of  quivering  trees 
Restrained — 


Still  and  naked,  unashamed, 
The  trees  look  down 
Into  the  white  mirror 
On  the  ground. 


Silhouette 

One  black  bird 

On  a  sharply  broken  bough, 

Leaning  out  to  touch  the  sky 

Against  a  ragged  shore, — 

Meadows  of  marsh-grass, 

Sudden  peering  necks  of  woods, 

And  then  a  city  panting, 

Emitting  gasps  of  hot,  quick  breath, 

Thick  with  the  odor  of  oil  and  gas.- 

[  89  ] 


Crackling  locusts  under  yellow  street  lamps, 

Flickering,   flickering, — 

Popping  rubber  tires,  their  parched  dry  tongues 

Licking  the  wet,  oily-skinned  pavements. 

One  pale  woman 

In  a  crowded  ocean  city 

Leaning  out  to  touch  the  heavens. 

Picture 

When  I  saw  her  wrapped  in  ermine, 

Perched  near  a  soft  blue  bowl 

Distinguished  by  some  golden-rod, 

She  reminded  me  of  a  white  parrot 

I  once  saw  all  puffed  in  fluffy  plumage. 

Poised  daintily  on  one  foot, 

Head  and  eyes  and  golden  beak 

Turned  sidewise 

Against  a  branch  of  sharp,  stiff  pine. 

It  was  in   a  tea-room,   too 
On  a  neuter-colored  wall 
As  dull  as  she. 


I  know  a  road 

All  filigree, 

That  goes  in  summer 

Foliaged, 

Down  to  meet  another  road 

That  moves  along  demurely 

Like  a  maiden  trembling 

In  her  stiff  and  dainty  dotted  muslin. 

And  I,  too, 
All  a-quiver, 


[  9C  J 


In  the  summer, 

Have  followed  these  two  winding  roads 

That  stroll  along  together 

Just  as  lovers  wander  far 

To  find  some  old,  old  trysting  place. 

But  still  I  wander. 

Boutonnieres 

Some  men 
Wear  their  cigars  like  scars 
Burnt  into  seared  holes  of  mouths, 
As  heroes — proudly. 

And  some 
Wear  them  like  pedestal  lamps 
Rooted  in  a  desert  of  a  face. 

Still  others 
Pucker  up  all  their  being 
Into  the  gleam  of  that  ^Hstant 
Little  light. 

Some  women 
Wear  their  loves  like  scars 
Burnt  into  their  seared,  hollow  souls, 
As  saints — devoutly. 

And   some 
Wear  them  like  lofty  signal  lights 
Gleaming  from  their  desert  faces. 

Still   others 
Pucker  up   all  their  being 
To  the  visioned  dream  of  that  love 
They  know  not. 

And  some  men 
Decorate  themselves  with  women's  loves 
Stuck  carelessly,  like  railroad  tickets, 


[  91  ] 


Instead  of  feathers,  in  their  hats. 

And   some  women 
Decorate  themselves  with  men's  loves 
Worn  like  badges  on  their  bosoms. 

And  some  men  and  women 
Decorate  themselves  with  life 
Worn  like  a  flower  in  the  lapel  of  Eternity. 

J© 

Laurence  F.  Triggs 

Burn  Candles,  Love 

Burn  candles,  Love,  incessantly, 
For  love  is  dead;    Come,  bind  the  hair 
In  wreaths  of  bay;    No  one  will  care — 
Burn  candles,  Love,  incessantly. 

Triad 

Comes  a  day  when  Memory 

Is  all  I  have, 

I  want  these  things  to  be: 

To  remember  great  men  without  envy, 

To  remember  women  without  desire, 

And  to  remember  you 

As  on  that  splendid  day  in  Spring; 

Without  regret     . 


[  92  ] 


The  One  Remains 

There  is  a  rift  within  the  lute, 
The  music  falters  and  is  done; 
I  come  to  find  your  lips  are  mute 
But  on  your  hair  the  setting  sun 
Enmeshes  strands  of  mauve  and  gold, 
Translucent  lights,  the  stars  ascend, 
And  love  and  song  are  as  of  old — 
Where  Beauty  is  there  is  no  end. 


<© 


Roberta  Wagner 

Saffron 

People  are  colors;  saffron  colored  you  are, 
Like  a  pine-rimmed  lake  at  sundown 
With  the  gold  sky  shining  in  its  depths; 
Like  shimmering  Indian  summer  and  maize; 
Like  topazes; 

Like  desert  poppies  holding  the  sun; 
Like  the  great  amber,  orange  moon 
Rising  behind  black  trees — 
Saffron  colored  you  are. 


C  93  ] 


Bruce  Weirick 

Lines  Written  in  a  Crypt  of  the  Art 
Institute,  Chicago. 

Here  in  the  quiet  of  the  Middle  Age 
There  is  a  haunting  solace  sweet  as  rest, 
No  warfare  grim  disturbs  their  heritage 
Among  the  solemn  counsels  of  the  blest. 
Sad  saints  and  sacred  angels  hover  o'er 
These  tombs  where  kings  are  laid  in  modest  state, 
And  the  dim  Christ  in  mildness  evermore 
Broods  with  his  cross  above  the  minster  gate. 

But  soft!  a  little  from  this  crypt  I  see 

Three  young  Greek  statues  white  and  marble  pure, 

Naked  as  grace  and  as  the  ocean  free, 

Yet  in  their  calm  divine,  as  gods  secure; 

Oh  beauty,  wonder,  rapture,   life  aflame, 

How  hath  thy  sunlight  struck  these  saints  to  shame. 

Lines  Written  in  Early  Spring 
While  Under  the  Influence  of 
Philosophy 

What  is  a  tree,  save  touch  and  sight? 

But  touch  and  sight's  in  me! 

Then  tree  is  too;  if  not,  what  right 

Have  I  to  talk  of  tree? 

An  "unperceived  perception" — 

Get  the  force  of  my  idee? 

[  94  ] 


Well,  put  'em  in;   put  nature  in; 

Put  God  in;   put  in  dreams; 

What's  mind?     An  idea;  in  she  goes! 

In  what:     In  mind!    This  seems 

The  limit;   dog  eats  dog!    God  knows 

I  write  this  stuff  in  reams. 

Kick  mind  out  then,  I've  left,  let's  see 

Perceptions!      One   by   one 

I  get  them,  but  don't  keep  them 

There's  no  "I"  to  have  that  fun! 

But  how  can  one  add  two  plus  two? 

It  can't!     Go  get  a  gun. 

Kick  out  ideas;   kick  out  th«  mi^d: 

Kick  out  the  inside  tree: 

Put  outside  on  the  outside! 

Outside  what?     We'll  let  tha1   hi 

Let's  call  it  all  "adjustment," 

"Cues  to  action,"  then  let's  see. 

Suppose  I  say  "give  me  a  drink." 
That's  sense!    But  where's  the  sp73e? 
In  booze,  in  youse,  or  in  the  gink 
That  makes  it!    None!    You  see 
It's  in  the  combination — 
Something  you  can't  touch  nor  see. 

They  call  this  pragmatism  dodge 
The  latest — here's  the  tree's 
Not  outside  all,  nor  inside  all, 
But  in  between  us:  see? 
What  you  are,  what  the  tree  is 
Ain't  the  question:  but  what's  three. 
But  this  cue,  relation,  attitude, 
I  cannot  touch  nor  smell, 


[  95  ] 


Nor  taste,  nor  see,  no  weigh,  nor  hear — 
Elusive,  ain't  it?     Well- 
It's  the  unknown  solves  the  unknown, 
Call  it  X,  or  God,  or  hell. 

The  Dancer 

The  dancers  whirl   about  the  room, 

Elate  with  motion,  eyes  alive, 

And  ladies'  dresses  like  the  bloom 

Of  gorgeous  shaken  flowers  drive 

The  senses  on  to  ecstasy; 

Rich  lovely  faces  here  and  there 

With  lips  half-parted,  smiling,  see 

The  room's  a  soul  of  fire  and  air. 

Vet  there  is  one  who  dances  on 

With  eyes  unseeing,  dreamily, 

And  when  she  goes  the  dance  is  gone, 

Come  back,  the  dance  is  revelry. 

She  dances  in  the  central  sun, 

And  where  she  walks  bright  flowers  are, 

The  violet  and  the  rose  are  one, 

And  time  is  like  a  falling  star. 


I  36  ] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILUNOIS-URBANA 
SiMS  1918-1923^0 


3  0112  025323418 


